


On the Polarity of Exotic Stars

by liriodendron



Series: Conductivity [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Homophobic Language, Language, M/M, Male Slash, References to Drug Use, Romance, Synesthesia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-11
Updated: 2014-01-27
Packaged: 2017-12-05 01:02:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 43,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/717076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liriodendron/pseuds/liriodendron
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sherlock Holmes keeps secrets but tells no lies, John Watson ceases to be sure about anything, and the definition of seduction is scrutinised, broken down, and reconstructed. </p><p>" 'Sherlock… what do you see when you look at Irene Adler?'</p><p>'What do you mean?'</p><p>'I mean… do you see anything like… like what you see when you look at me?'</p><p>Sherlock finally turns to meet John’s eyes and looks him up and down. 'No.'</p><p>John should be relieved by this, but it's little comfort. 'But there’s something though, isn’t there?'</p><p>Sherlock appears torn between answering honestly and not replying at all. At last he says, 'Yes. Something.' "</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks a million times to my lovely beta-reader and editrix, Sher_locked_up. Any remaining mistakes are my own. =)
> 
> “To Sherlock Holmes she is always the woman. I have seldom heard him mention her under any other name. In his eyes she eclipses and predominates the whole of her sex. It was not that he felt any emotion akin to love for Irene Adler. All emotions, and that one particularly, were abhorrent to his cold, precise but admirably balanced mind. He was, I take it, the most perfect reasoning and observing machine that the world has seen, but as a lover he would have placed himself in a false position. He never spoke of the softer passions, save with a gibe and a sneer... And yet there was but one woman to him, and that woman was the late Irene Adler, of dubious and questionable memory.” – Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, “A Scandal in Bohemia”

John Watson is having possibly the loveliest weekend of his existence, never mind that it’s technically Thursday.

Every so often, after a long period of working without rest or after a string of particularly difficult cases, Sherlock Holmes will stay in bed for several days and do basically nothing. This has happened twice that John knows of since they met, both times prior to the redefinition of their friendship. The first time he had been certain Sherlock had the flu, and the second he had assumed your basic falling-off-the wagon bender. But neither had been the case.

Sherlock, though frequently completely inattentive to his physical needs, is not quite so thoroughly self-destructive as he often appears. John has discovered that he actually has a finely tuned sense of when he’s pushed himself just a little too far, when he’s lost a bit too much weight, when he’s punished his body and brain so much that both are starting to rebel. His solution to this is two to four days of sleeping, eating, light reading, and absolutely no contact with the outside world.

_It’s like he turns into a different person, although still entirely, unmistakably Sherlock. To see the man mellow and relaxed for more than just the time it takes for his hard drive to restart after an orgasm is both a bit shocking and totally delightful._

On Thursday morning John wakes up, as usual, in Sherlock’s bed, with the atypical addition of the detective still sprawled next to him, fast asleep. John moves to get up, trying not to disturb Sherlock, but even the slight shifting of weight on the mattress is enough.

“Where are you going?” Sherlock mumbles into his pillow, not moving.

“The usual. Shower, get dressed, we need some shopping and I promised Lestrade I’d pop round and look at something for him – strictly a medical question, he said.”

With an aggrieved sigh Sherlock rolls over and props himself up on his elbow. “Mrs. Hudson can pick up what we need – she always does her shopping on Thursdays. Lestrade can sod off. And if you don’t need to go out, there’s no reason for you to get dressed.”

“It’s gone nine, Sherlock. In the middle of the week. I think I should start my day.”

“You have started it. So have I. Just because we haven’t gotten up doesn’t mean the day hasn’t begun.”

It takes John a few moments to decipher the reason for Sherlock’s sudden insistence that he has no need to leave the house, or even the bedroom. Because the man couldn’t possibly just be simple and straightforward and say something on the order of, “John, I plan to spend the next few days in bed and I would like you stay with me for company and cuddling and possibly quite a lot of sex.”

John looks at Sherlock appraisingly, with a medical eye. There has barely been time to breathe over the past couple of months, between the drawn out and exhausting tension that led them to the place of now sharing a bed; the string of dangerous, long, and stressful cases; and both of them experiencing several somewhat significant injuries. Not to mention the time spent with Victor, which has brought up some very confusing feelings for Sherlock that John knows he must be having a hard time with, though he’d never admit it.

_John bears Victor no ill will or jealousy, and has come to feel very deeply for him, but the entire trip had been hard on all three of them. Sherlock’s belated realisation of his former love for the man was still sinking in, and John can see the guilt and pain and uncertainty about himself it has caused, though Sherlock cannot._

The strain is starting to show. His face looks drawn and hollowed, with dark circles under his eyes. Sometime in the week since they’ve been home he’s dropped the crucial pound or two which takes him from slender to gaunt. And the sense of manic energy, restrained or not, which is his primary mode of operation other than sulking, is not present.

_He looks tired. And in need of a meal._

“Okay,” John says finally, smiling despite his concern. “How about this? I get showered but don’t get dressed, and then I make us both an enormous breakfast that we can eat together in here. How does that sound?”

Sherlock considers the proposition gravely. “That would be acceptable,” he agrees with a yawn, sinking back down into the bedding. “Wake me when there’s food.”

The next day and a half proves to be incredibly, surprisingly wonderful. John does not normally enjoy inactivity for long periods, but spending time with Sherlock like this, to have him both still and present for more than a few moments, is unprecedented and he is not about to complain. He has enough chances to get up and stretch his legs when Sherlock is sleeping, which is often, or when he’s been ordered to prepare more food. Sherlock is consuming huge portions of anything rich, fatty, or sweet he can get, and it warms John’s heart to watch him eat heartily.

Sherlock only rises to bathe and to change the sheets a few times – he remains fastidiously clean even in his laziness. He sleeps naked, having told John that the feel of elastic or any binding fabric against his skin at night is painful and distracting and the only things bearable are his high-thread count linens. His only concession to clothing now is to throw on a dressing gown when he gets up. John doesn’t mind this in the least, although he sticks to pyjama bottoms and t-shirt for lounging purposes.

_Sherlock, wearing nothing but a red silk dressing gown, barely tied, padding across the room with long, white legs visible as he moves, his hair an attractively tangled mess, makes John’s heart beat fast even when he’s just spent the past hour making love to him. He must know how much raw sexual attraction he exudes. He just doesn’t care most of the time, which makes it even harder to resist._

Of course the time in bed is far from completely idle. Sherlock has a high and energetic libido even at the worst of times. His expressions of desire usually fall somewhere among one of three forms: the experimental, in which he sets about collecting data and esoteric facts about one or both of them during sex – from the exact heart rate at climax to the comparative levels of pleasure received from each of three carefully selected positions; the animalistic, which occurs after cases when both are on an adrenaline high or when Sherlock is in need of an outlet for his lust or frustration or some other thing, raw need and passion resulting in erotically rough and desperate sex, as well as occasional damage of bodies and/or property (or when they are both just extremely horny, which is often); and, finally, the gentle but needy, when Sherlock needs to communicate or understand something he can’t express, or if they’ve had a row, so that Sherlock can feel that everything is all right or apologise without having to say anything or even simply try and show John what’s going through his head and divine what’s going through John’s. John fully enjoys each of these, and has no objections to any of it.

But what is happening now is not quite any of those things. In the same way that Sherlock has given himself permission to rest and ignore cases for a few days, he also seems to have allowed himself room to indulge in anything else he wants to do. Which seems to be, mainly, John.  Not that Sherlock normally holds back, but there’s something different about this.

_He’s soft and mild, like he’s tamed himself for John, confident in the fact that John will not try to keep him this way, that he can go back to the wild at any time. But for a brief time he wants nothing more than to be doted on and petted, to give affection and absorb every scrap of it John is willing to give him._

He is not looking for data or high thrills or even reassurance now. He’s just luxuriating in having John constantly within arms reach and in a state of undress, with nowhere to go, for hours and hours at a time. He seems to be in it for the unadulterated pleasure of slow and repeated lovemaking with the only person he trusts enough to allow that close to him, for a brief span happy and content with no other thoughts troubling his mind.

John has never experienced something like this, with Sherlock or really anyone else. Sometimes it is hard for John to tell how much he means to Sherlock on a daily basis. He knows it, of course, but it can be difficult to remember in the middle of a case or when Sherlock is sulking or insulting him. But right now there is no such problem. Sherlock is being so obviously desirous, so tenderly playful and solicitous, that even the most irrational parts of John’s mind have no room to doubt.

It feels not so much like a series of discrete encounters as a single, endless tryst, punctuated only by brief forays to attend to other needs; a constant state of languid arousal, ebbing and flowing but never really going away. Moving from half-asleep touching and fondling, to long investigations of each other’s bodies with gentle hands and lips, to sweet and lazy sessions of getting one another off in every possible way and position that doesn’t involve feet on the floor, to two straight hours of nothing but kissing, and back again.

_John wouldn’t have thought it was possible to enjoy just kissing for that long, nor that Sherlock would be interested in such a thing except as an experiment, but it appears that he’s just enjoying trying to take John apart with his mouth for its own sake. Which John finds incredibly erotic. He surrenders himself to the experience, all of it, determined to not let this rare chance go to waste in any way._

He suspects this is how Sherlock is restoring himself emotionally after extreme prolonged stress, as the sleep and food are repairing him physically. John is also in need of rest and refreshment, far more so than he had thought, as focused on Sherlock’s wellbeing as he had been. This is certainly doing the trick. Sherlock may not view it as a much needed time of bonding and reaffirmation, but as he has just spent the better part of two days going over his friend so thoroughly that there is no chance he’s missed even a micrometre of John’s body, he wouldn’t have much luck denying it either.

John and Sherlock lie somewhat tangled on the bed on Friday afternoon, still naked, anaemic late autumn sun streaming in through the window. Both are quite recently satisfied and rather spent, though by no means down for the count. John is running his hand over the inside of Sherlock’s thigh, eyes closed, while Sherlock has his legs over John’s chest and is dangling his head upside down off the edge of the bed.

John uses the time to recall some of the more pleasurable of many exceedingly pleasurable moments they have enjoyed over the past thirty-six hours.

_Sherlock on top of John, tongues so deep and entwined it’s a miracle either of them can breathe, pressed together, both finally coming from nothing but the friction of their bodies against each other. Spooning around Sherlock and running hands over every muscle and bone and scar on the front of his body, setting a new record for time, face buried in his curls and existing for what feels like hours in that intimacy and pure bliss before finally tumbling over the edge. Ensconcing himself between Sherlock’s legs and licking deep, deep within him until all Sherlock can do is grip John’s hair and whisper his name._

“Mmm, yes, that one was particularly lovely,” the detective’s deep voice purrs. “I think I may owe you for that.”

John opens his eyes. “How on earth did you know what I was thinking about?”

“Your body tenses unconsciously in very specific ways when you’re contemplating sex, depending on exactly what act you’re thinking of and whether you have just done it or would like to do it. Your breathing and body temperature indicated you were being turned on by something already done, most like very recently, and the sympathetic clenching of your—”

“All right!” John cuts him off, both embarrassed and pleased. “I should never have doubted you.”

_It’s disconcerting when Sherlock reads his mind like that, but also a sign of how well he knows John, the amount of time he’s spent devoted to learning John when he could have been doing something else. It’s the things like that which keep John from ever wanting anything different, even when Sherlock is at his worst._

He can feel Sherlock’s satisfied smirk and grins too. He allows his hand to drift upward and is rewarded by Sherlock’s own change of breathing and body temperature. “Sherlock?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you mind if I ask…how do you make this work?”

Sherlock lifts his head and shifts backwards a little so he is entirely back on the bed and can see John. “As a doctor I assumed you were aware of the physical and chemical reactions involved in a wide range of sexual activities, between both same and opposite sex couples, but if you need an explanation…”

“Pretentious wanker. I mean…this. The relaxing, the not worrying about cases. I’ve seen you take your pistol to the drywall over an afternoon of boredom and shoot up enough cocaine to make an elephant attempt bobsledding after a couple of days without work. It’s fantastic, don’t get me wrong, I definitely encourage this behaviour as much and as often as you like… I’m just surprised you aren’t driving yourself insane yet.”

Sherlock gives him the look that says “obvious” without having to risk saying it. “Because this is what I’m doing now. Not working when I should be working is unacceptable. My brain needs distraction, simulation, and to have that denied is painful. But right now both my brain and my body require rest and endorphins and sustenance before they can work at peak efficiency again, so I am doing exactly what I should be doing: thus the lack of insanity. Unless my current impulse to have my fingers inside of you while sucking you off as slowly as I can manage is a sign of mental instability…”

_That suggestion sounds perfectly lucid to John, although Sherlock’s overall sanity is always up for debate. But John isn’t thinking about that right now, he’s thinking about large hands and the long white fingers of a concert violinist and a set of perfectly bowed lips wrapping around him._

John is surprised how quickly this brief description is able to make him hard again, but he decides not to question it and pulls the taller man over to him, wrapping his arms around him and beginning to ravish the elegant neck while he throws a leg over Sherlock’s hip, forcing them tight against each other. He’s just about to reach a hand between them when there is a sudden gasp from the hall.

“Boys!” screeches Mrs. Hudson, covering her eyes. “I’ve spoken you to about locking the door if you’re going to be…indisposed for company!”

John turns bright crimson and scrambles to cover himself and Sherlock, who seems completely undeterred by their landlady’s presence.

“We’re very sorry Mrs. Hudson, I thought we had, it won’t happen again.”

“It wouldn’t happen at all if you didn’t constantly wander in here without asking,” Sherlock snaps.

“Sherlock!” John reprimands.

“If I didn’t ‘wander in’ here all the time, this place would never be clean and you’d never have fresh food in, but if you’re tired of that I am happy to not be your housekeeper. Especially as I’m _not_ your housekeeper!”

_Mrs. Hudson rarely gets truly angry with Sherlock, but given the sight she must have just been treated to as well as Sherlock’s general dickery of the moment, a line has clearly been crossed. She puts up with a lot, and never more since they’ve moved their friendship into the physical realm. Between unlocked doors, late night activities John was sure set the whole house to shaking, and Sherlock occasionally attacking him in the entry way (because the time it would take to walk up a set of steps and ten feet of corridor is and intolerable period to wait) she must be finding it quite a trial._

“Mrs. Hudson, again, so sorry! What Sherlock means to say is that we really appreciate all the things you do for us and we will be very, very careful in the future to not um… impose our personal life upon you by accident. And to say sorry. _Don’t you,_ Sherlock?”

Sherlock scowls at John and sighs, but finally says. “Apologies, Mrs. Hudson.”

She nods, placated. “I mean, not that I don’t think it’s brilliant that you’ve sorted it all out, but there are some things I don’t need to actually see…”

“ _Thank you_ , Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock says and she looks annoyed again.

“Hmph. Well, I’ve only come to tell you that there’s a gentleman downstairs who says he has an urgent matter for you. Thank heaven I didn’t bring him straight up! He seems quite worked up… what should I say to him?”

Sherlock hesitates and John can practically see his brain spark with the possibility of a case, the excitement back in his eyes. But after a long pause he says. “We’re not seeing clients today, Mrs. Hudson. Tell him to come back tomorrow after noon. And lock the door on your way out if you don’t mind, thanks _ever_ so much.”

When she’s gone, Sherlock immediately turns his attention back to John, who holds him off. “Sherlock… if you want to take that case now, it’s fine with me.”

_And it is, he realises, even though he’s loathe to let go of these moments before he has to. Sherlock in motion and on the hunt is just as appealing as Sherlock in bed without clothes. Sometimes more._

Sherlock looks at him in surprise. “John, I told you, this is what I’m doing now. That is what I will be doing tomorrow,” he tells him, as if it should make perfect sense. “Unless you are tired of this and want to investigate on your own?”

John barely has time to say, “Not remotely,” before Sherlock has dragged him back down to the bed, and then it is a very long time before he needs to say anything else at all.

 

 

Sherlock doesn’t appear in any rush to break the spell the next morning, lying in until nearly ten and then dragging John to the shower with him and proceeding to shove him up against the tile and fuck him very deliberately until they are nearly out of hot water.

_This is one of John’s favourite things and Sherlock knows it. This is how he is showing gratitude for John agreeing to stay with him and cooking for him and sustaining him in other ways. John sometimes wonders if Sherlock would be able to communicate properly at all if he and John never touched._

“That was nice,” John says, towelling himself off. “And when I say ‘nice’…”

“When you’re warm like that you look like a heat lamp in a sauna.” Sherlock smiles, but John can see his mood is starting to change already, his mind ramping up, his body no longer soft and boneless. He looks worlds better than he had a couple days ago. What little colour he ever shows has returned, he seems to have gained at least half a stone, and he appears refreshed and alert.

By the time they have both eaten and dressed and are waiting for the potential client to appear, Sherlock is entirely back to his usual self, albeit the most cheerful and excited version of it.

_John’s a little sad to see their impromptu dirty weekend go, but relieved as well. That Sherlock might be easier to deal with, but John wouldn’t want to him stay like that all the time and the thought that he ever might was unsettling. He was best like this, and they were best together._

It’s barely a tick past noon when they hear the bell and the sound of Mrs. Hudson letting in their guest. A short, nervous-looking man with a shock of the reddest hair John has ever seen enters, hyperventilating. Before John can even stand to greet him or offer him some water he bursts out in a rush of words, “Oh, thank God! I think someone is planning to kill me!” and collapses in a heap on their sitting room floor.

 


	2. Chapter 2

The man wakes to the dark shadow of Sherlock perched above him on the arm of the sofa, fingers steepled, observing him unblinkingly. John kneels beside him, taking his pulse. He gives a sharp gasp and begins to hyperventilate again.

“All right, don’t start that again,” John orders in his most medical tone. “That’s how you ended up here in the first place. You’ll have to excuse my partner, he’s just very eager to hear what you have to say. Okay?”

The man gulps and nods, and lets John help him sit up. John shoots a meaningful look at Sherlock, jerking his head towards the chair. Sherlock reluctantly abandons his angel-of-death posture and repositions himself in a less threatening attitude.

_Sherlock’s lucky not to have given the poor stranger a heart attack like that, distressed as he was. John sleeps with the man and is still right startled when he wakes to Sherlock looming like a cadaverous vulture above the bed. Thank God it only happens a couple times a month._

“Are you ready to talk about your case, Mr. Bryant, or would you like to waste more of my time with your theatrics?”

“I’m very sorry, Mr. Holmes I just – Hang up, how did you know my name? I didn’t give it to your housekeeper.”

“The same way I know you haven’t gotten more than four hours of sleep in a night for at least six months, that you play golf regularly but don’t enjoy it, that you recently started a new relationship and are a considerate lover, and that while you now enjoy a comfortable upper middle-class existence you actually grew up in poverty.”

_John’s eyes rove over the man but he can see little that would have given Sherlock any of this information. As usual. It drives him crazy, but it also sends a chill down his spine that is not unpleasant._

Bryant’s jaw drops, to Sherlock’s obvious satisfaction. “How did you know all –”

“Because I pay attention, and because it is my job to pay attention. That’s why you’ve come to see me, isn’t it? Then get to why you’re here or get out.”

John sighs a bit a Sherlock’s typical rudeness, but it does seem to do the trick. Bryant carefully smoothes his shirt and begins to explain.

“Well, sir, you were right about how I grew up. My mother could barely keep a roof over our heads and I never knew my father. She did what she could to get me a decent education, and always made sure I focused on my studies, but there just wasn’t enough money for University when it came time. I took a gap year to work and try to earn enough, but it was difficult. About the time I was losing hope, I met a man who said he belonged to the British Society for Ginger Advancement.”

“The _what_?” John interjects.

“I know it sounds strange, but it’s a real organization, only for people with naturally red hair. It’s mostly a social thing, but they were founded by a very wealthy man who made it the club’s mission to promote the well-being and success of people like me. Some of the members are a little extreme, refusing to date anyone who isn’t also ginger, talking about how oppressed and endangered we are; that sort of nonsense. But most people are just in it for fun or tradition. Anyway, the man I met explained that the Society offers scholarships to deserving and hard-working young men and women, and that I was certainly eligible.

“It seemed odd of course, but people offer scholarships for all kinds of strange reasons, so I applied. To my surprise they offered me enough to pay for my whole education, including a little to live on. Well, of course I took them up on it and became a member of the club. There was the usual secret society swearing in and rites of passage nonsense you get with these things, but they mostly were a good hearted group who just liked to get together for a drink and to make business connexions – there was a lot of that, some very well placed people are members.

“There was the understanding that when I got older and more successful that I would give back to future young people through the Society, and I didn’t mind at all. Not only did they give me an education, it was through Society members that I got my current job and a decent future in my career too.”

_John would not be inclined to believe any of this, if not for the man’s almost naïve sincerity, his incredulity at his own life’s story. Still, it may be odd, but it’s hardly a case by itself._

Sherlock yawns. “I’m not seeing a problem here, Mr. Bryant. You’ve come to me because life has been too quixotically kind to you?”

Bryant swallows nervously. “I’m getting to that. Sometime last year something changed in the club. It got more serious, the more extreme members ended up with officer positions, and instead of a tone of ‘oh, we all have red hair, people make fun of us, gotta stick to together’ meetings instead started to involve resentment and distrust of everyone who was not like us. I stopped going, kind of distanced myself from the whole thing. I felt guilty about it, but it just wasn’t like it used to be and I didn’t want to hate anyone, especially because of something as silly as hair colour. It was all fine for a while, I went about my life. But then I started noticing….people.”

“People following you?” John asks.

“Not…exactly. Just one day I noticed while I was at the grocery that there seemed to be rather more red-headed people around that one normally sees. I shrugged it off, but it kept happening. On the street, in the shops, wherever I went. At first I thought I was going mad, but after a few weeks I couldn’t deny that it was actually happening.”

“Anyone you recognised? Did any of them speak to you or do or say anything threatening?”

Bryant shakes his head. “No. After a couple months of this, I cracked a little, ran over to a strawberry blonde woman and demanded to know what she was doing. She said she had no idea what I was talking about, that she was out for a walk, and said she’d call the cops on me if I didn’t leave her alone. But I know this has something to do with the Society, something with my leaving. And it’s happening more and more.”

_It does sound rather threatening to slowly be surrounded by strange ginger people who seemed to materialise wherever you went. Even if it was a fluke, it would be creepy. Not that John has anything against redheads – he’d bedded a disproportionate number of them in his time – but too many at once, outside of Scotland, just seems unnatural._

“Did anyone from your…club… ever say anything to you after you left? Ask you to come back?”

“No, nothing. But it has to be them… I know they don’t take betrayal lightly. I don’t think they want me back. I think they want me dead!”

John glances at Sherlock, whose face is unreadable. “I think that might be a little extreme for a social club, don’t you?” he asks carefully. “Even one that’s gone a bit off the edge.”

“I know how it sounds,” Bryan says, pleading. “But you don’t understand how some of these people are. Please, you have to help me. I don’t know who else to go to.”

Sherlock unfurls himself from his chair and looks down at the pitiful, shaking form sitting on the sofa. “Here’s your answer. You feel guilty about taking money and then not returning the favour. Your guilt causes you to notice others of your complexion more than usual, which then develops into paranoia, which escalates the whole thing even further. Give a large donation to your Society’s scholarship fund, find a therapist, and get yourself some sleeping pills. Good day.”

He turns abruptly on his heel, heading for his bedroom.

_That was cruel, but John has to admit it’s the mostly likely scenario. He thinks about trying to get Sherlock to reframe his diagnosis in a less harsh manner, but supposes softening the news wouldn’t be doing the poor soul any favours. And Sherlock doesn’t appear in the mood to compromise._

“Wait, please!” Bryant calls after him, desperately. “What about the things happening at my work?”

Sherlock halts. “What things?”

“I was just getting to that. In the past month or so, things have been happening at my job that I haven’t had anything to do with. And yet my name is on the paperwork, or my ID card was used. People have said they saw me at the office at days or times when I know I wasn’t there. None of it’s bad, I haven’t gotten in trouble for anything. It’s all minor stuff within the range of normal office work. But I can verify that I was somewhere else or doing something else at the time a lot of it happened. Yet my coworkers insist that I was definitely there.”

Sherlock turns back, just as abruptly, and returns to the sitting room.

“Where do you work? Government job? Finance? No, your clothes aren’t right for either… copyist?”

“Sort of. It’s a specialty paper company. We do some printing, though – mostly non-standard jobs with special requirements, like those large ad banners. I like it well enough, but it’s nothing I can imagine anyone would be envious of!”

Sherlock purses his lips. “All right. John will go to your place of work on Monday to see what he can find. As you seem to be in no immediate danger I think it’s best if you continue to act as normally as possible. This may take some time. And for God’s sake, start keeping track of who these mysterious people you’re seeing are and whether the same people are showing up multiple times. Pay attention instead of panicking, I mean honestly what on earth has been going through your brain for the past six—”

John clears his throat. “Sherlock…”

“Yes, what?” the detective snaps.

“I’m not going to be here on Monday. Or tomorrow. Remember?”

“What? No. What are you talking about; of course you’ll be here. Where else would you be?”

_Of course. Of course Sherlock had forgotten. It didn’t pertain to him and it inconvenienced his own plans, so naturally it had been unable to penetrate his consciousness in any way._

“Dublin. The conference. Honestly, I told you ten times and put it on the wall chart and _in your phone_!”

Mr. Bryant coughs politely and they both stop and stare at him.

“Are you still here?” Sherlock asks. “I told you I’ll look into it. Now run along. You’ll hear from us.”

Bryant gathers his things uncertainly and makes his way out of the flat, looking both confused and somewhat reassured.

Sherlock turns his focus immediately back to John. “Well, I’m sure it’s too late to get your money back on the hotel, but it can’t be helped. Now, what we really should start with is—”

_Is he really presuming John’s going to abandon a professional obligation of longstanding just to help with a case that doesn’t seem urgent and is certainly manageable by Sherlock alone? John wonders why he’s even remotely surprised at this anymore._

“I’m not cancelling,” John interrupts. “This is important.”

“More important than this case? A man’s life is at stake!”

“Maybe. But not in the next three days, I assume, from your lackadaisical approach so far. I’m going to the conference. I’m to present a paper; I can’t just not go.”

Sherlock’s face begins to assume the expression that indicates he is about to hit a sulk of epic proportions but John is unmoved.

“What kind of paper would _you_ write, anyway?” he demands, as if the concept is preposterous.

“One on the mating habits of African pygmy tree shrews. Jesus, what kind do you think? I am a practicing physician, if you recall. I believe that’s one of the reasons you found me so _useful_ in the first place. I occasionally do something of scientific interest or value to the medical community, even if you aren’t paying attention when I do. It’s a toxicology conference, and I’m presenting on the novel delivery and action of Indian viper venom when introduced in small doses via intramuscular injection. Remember, the speckled blonde case?”

“Well, I suppose if you must have your little amusements…”

_John bites his tongue, hard. If he lets that get to him he will already have lost. He closes his eyes for a fraction of a second and lets the frustration and anger wash over him like a wave. This Sherlock. This is what he does. To take it personally would be a waste of emotional energy. And the fact that Sherlock cares at all whether John stays or leaves is somewhat endearing, even if he’s mostly just being controlling for the fun of it._

"You could come with me,” John points out, making an effort to seem as unruffled by the baiting as possible. “A meeting like this seems right up your alley.”

Sherlock makes a disgusted face. “Waste of time. And conferences are full of…people. I’ve too much on here, anyway. Bring me back something to read if you like.  Now if you don’t mind very much, I have some urgent research to do on this Ginger Society matter.”

“Yeah, urgent, sure,” John says sarcastically. 

The rest of the afternoon and evening are spent at their separate pursuits, Sherlock researching the case while John goes over the abstracts for the conference and his own presentation. He’s so focused on it that he barely notices how late it’s gotten, until Sherlock stretches and yawns on the sofa.  He gets suddenly to his feet with one smooth motion.

“Bed, John,” he says, heading for the bathroom.

John hides an indulgent smile and follows, pausing to tamp down the fire and collect several tea mugs and other bits of detritus that have collected over the course of the day.

When John reaches Sherlock’s room his friend is already settled. John slides under the covers and before he can even adjust his pillow, Sherlock has pulled him to him for a rough kiss and to roll John half on top of him, head resting next to head.

_John can’t help how much he adores this: Sherlock’s presumption of his obedience, his unthinking possessiveness. No, it goes beyond possessiveness. The way he touches John, the way he kisses – it’s proprietary. Not just that John’s body belongs to Sherlock, but as if there is no difference between his body and Sherlock’s own, like John is an extension of himself. It should rankle more, being taken so very much for granted, but Sherlock takes John for granted the way John takes oxygen for granted, and John can’t quite be angry about that._

John shifts until he’s comfortable, feeling the gentle rise and fall of Sherlock’s breast beneath him. Sherlock seems to have come to terms with John’s upcoming trip – or perhaps he’s just deleted it again. John wouldn’t put it past him.

John’s feeling sleepy, but something that’s been niggling at him all day just won’t be quieted. He’s tried to ignore it to show his annoyance at Sherlock’s arrogance, but it just doesn’t seem worth it any longer.

“Sherlock?” he asks, unable to resist.

“Hmm?”

“I give up. When you deduced Mr. Bryant today… how?”

Sherlock gives an amused rumble, smiling but not opening his eyes. “Come now, John. _You_ should be able to tell me how.”

_He wants the game, he wants to see John jump for it, and John is pleased enough oblige._

“Okay…well, the name was easy. We both saw it, ‘Abel Bryant’ stitched into his coat tag after he passed out. The golf… I did see calluses on his hands which I suppose you are going to tell me are indicative of an avid player. But how did you know he doesn’t enjoy it?”

“The calluses are a centimetre too low, but have been there a long time. He’s holding his clubs wrong, either resulting in him being poor at the game or because he can’t be bothered to learn the right way, after all these years. Either way, he’s not likely to be having much fun at it. Continue, please.”

“All right. Well, his clothes and shoes are good quality; I suppose that’s how you got his income bracket. Raised in poverty though…?”

“His clothes were expensive but were they new? Observation, John!”

“No… they’d been mended a little, were a little worn.”

“Exactly. And yet his phone and watch were recent. He can afford new clothes, but he’s not comfortable with getting rid of something that has any wear left in it at all. Poor man’s habit. Last?”

“The relationship. There was lipstick on his collar but that doesn’t mean it’s a new one, does it?”

“Good, John. Not necessarily, although in a settled relationship that doesn’t happen as often. More common in affairs, but he’s not married. It was the whiff of women’s perfume I caught. He carries a handkerchief scented with it in his pocket. Very Victorian sentiment; very recent infatuation behaviour.”

John snorts. “Incredible. But one more thing. How could you have possibly known he’s a considerate lover? You had to have taken a shot in the dark with that one. Besides, no one wants to think he’s an inconsiderate lover. No man would contradict you.”

“Mmm… true. But I had evidence to back it up.”

“And that would be?”

“For a man otherwise not meticulous with his person – slightly mussed hair, two days growth of beard, clothes as before mentioned – he had perfectly manicured hands and extremely well-trimmed fingernails.”

John glances down at his hands – and their extremely well-trimmed fingernails – involuntarily.

“I rest my case,” Sherlock says smugly, and John laughs.

_Only Sherlock Holmes could find such a roundabout way to compliment someone so thoroughly, so intimately, and so arrogantly. John flushes with pleasure at the thought of where his hands have been lately, and the fact that they seem to have been having their desired effect on his friend._

“You know _you_ could go to Bryant’s work on Monday and check things out while I’m away,” John points out after a few moments of silence.

Sherlock’s eyes open and he looks surprised at the suggestion. “John, while this case is intriguing, I hardly think it merits my personal presence in such an early stage. Really, you ought to know this by now.”

“Oh, of course, how silly of me,” John retorts. “Because the cases you decide to go out on aren’t merely dictated by whim of the moment, there’s a logic to it.”

“Of course there is. Clearly we need some sort of system to help you understand which is which…”

“Great. Maybe you can work on that while I’m away. In Dublin. For _two days_.” John waits for Sherlock to try and talk him out of going again, but Sherlock ignores his words completely.

“Sleep now, John,” Sherlock informs him, appearing to fall instantly unconscious after uttering those words.

_John can never tell when Sherlock is actually oblivious to things outside his immediate concern and when he’s being purposely obtuse to torture John or simply get his own way. Doesn’t matter really, because John is not going to let it work. Sherlock wins enough of the time without John actually letting him._

Still, John finds himself nuzzling just a little closer to that long, graceful neck and growing drowsy as the rhythmic movements of the detective’s chest and the sweet smell of his breath on John’s cheek lull him to sleep.

 

 

John leaves early in the morning, making one last ditch effort to impress his upcoming absence upon Sherlock’s brain on the way out the door. Sherlock is deep in some experiment and doesn’t respond.

He finds the conference enjoyable, even if he’s grown unused to being away from Sherlock and Baker Street for any great period of time. But there’s plenty to keep his mind occupied, new research to learn about, new colleagues to meet, a modest amount of praise for his own work. It’s invigorating.

_John feels a lot of things when he’s around Sherlock, good and bad and intense. But he rarely has a chance to feel clever, really clever, all on his own. He’s accepted this as part of the price of being friends with one of the most intelligent people on earth. But every once in a while, it feels nice to be one of the smart ones again._

John finds out the answer to whether or not Sherlock was really oblivious to his trip when his phone begins playing reveille at the highest volume setting at three am Monday morning, and refuses to be silenced. John has to smother it with a pillow until the battery runs down. He doesn’t mind nearly as much as he should.

On the second afternoon John runs into some friends from the Army, other medics that he’s served with many times. He finds he’s surprised to see them, though given the setting he really oughtn’t be.

“I’ll be fucked, if it isn’t Three Continents Watson!” booms the largest of the group, Jackson. He pulls John into a bear hug that lifts him off the ground by half a metre.

John grins sheepishly and straightens his clothes as they pepper him with questions and exchange pleasantries.

“This man here,” Jackson informs the only member of the group John doesn’t know. “Has luck with women that’s got the devil himself scratching his head. He’s had his way with so many lovely little things it’s a miracle any were left for the rest of us. Watson, what the hell have you been up to… or into?” He winks slightly lewdly.

_It had to come eventually. John has managed to dodge most of the people from his old life in the past year, for reasons having nothing to do with his sexuality, but sooner or later he’d known this would come up. His first instinct is to hide his new situation from his army buddies, a knee jerk reaction. But bugger that. He’s not ashamed of it or of Sherlock and damned if he’ll let military machismo bully him into acting otherwise._

“Actually, I’ve rather settled down,” he tells them with studied casualness. “I think my playboy days are over.”

“Christ, Watson, you didn’t get _married_!” exclaims a stout captain – Brixley – in mock horror.

“Hardly,” John laughs stiffly, and decides to just bite the bullet. “Truth is, I’ve got a certain gentleman waiting for me back home, and he’s put a permanent end to my… roving.”

The men look at him blankly for a moment, before Jackson roars with laughter and slaps him on the back. “Good one, Watson! Had us there for a moment.”

But John’s face is stone and the laughter dies.

“Fuck, you’re serious,” breathes Brixley. “Of all people, I never figured you for a cocksucker.”

John’s hands clench at his sides and he can feel them all taking a mental step back. They’ve seen him go off, and not even Jackson, who is easily twice his size, wants to be on the receiving end of that.

_John had broken Jackson’s nose once, when he was being rather too drunkenly insistent with an unwilling companion, and he knows the other man hasn’t forgotten it. For all his bluster now, he’d followed John around like a beta dog for months after._

“Well,” John says with transparently false cheer. “Neither did I. But it turns out I’m quite good at it. Who knew? That’s not a… _problem_ … for anyone here is it?”

They all hurry to say no, of course not, best of luck with that, but the conversation dwindles after his revelation and soon they are mumbling reasons why they must really get going. Great to see John, next time we’ll have to hit the pub and relive the glory days.

As they go, the youngest of the group, a lieutenant named McNabb, lags behind long enough to tell John, quietly, “I read your blog, it’s brilliant! And you and that detective fellow, Holmes? It’s… well, I think it’s nice is all. Good for you.”

John gives him a half-hearted smile and McNabb punches his arm lightly before disappearing with the others.

After that the rest of the day is somewhat soured for John. The programme is still interesting, but he feels like he’s just going through the motions until it’s over. He’s more than ready to leave in the morning, skipping the closing breakfast.

_John’s gotten plenty of funny looks and comments since he met Sherlock. He never likes them and has more than once picked a fight over it, but even so that sort of prejudice from strangers rolls off the back easily. But these are men he’s known for years, some since med school. They’d shared assignments and danger and rough nights. Brixley had even helped treat John after he was wounded, stitched him up with his own hands. Normally they all would have gone out and gotten roaring drunk together, telling war stories and picking up women. The rejection stings._

John gets home mid-morning on Tuesday. Sherlock, predictably, takes no notice. He’s sitting sideways in John’s chair, legs dangling over the arm and head tilted back, staring blankly at the ceiling while he thinks through some problem. John trudges up to his room to unpack, feeling both relieved and oppressed at being back.

_Sherlock’s unconditional commandeering of his entire existence can be suffocating and his refusal to admit that anything John does that’s not directly to do with Sherlock himself has any worth at all is maddening. But here John is accepted completely, without question or comment. He’s safe here with Sherlock, despite certain death always lurking around the next corner. And he’s valued, even if it’s not always for the things he’d prefer._

As he’s slowly hanging his shirts back in the wardrobe, he hears Sherlock bellow from the sitting room. “John! John. _John!_ ”

John doesn’t respond. He’s not in the mood to shout a conversation between floors, and is certainly not going to run downstairs to find out whatever ridiculous thing Sherlock wants. He gives it 45 seconds. At 46 seconds he hears footsteps pounding up the stairs.

Sherlock appears in John’s doorway looking as if the future of the British empire hangs on the answer to his question. “John, where the hell are all the drinking glasses?”

“Hello to you as well. They’re in the big stockpot on the hob.”

“Why would they be there?”

“Because I felt the strange urge to sterilize them after you used them test the rates at which human kidneys dissolve in difference kinds of acid.”

“Ah.” Sherlock turns to go and John returns to his unpacking, feeling bone weary, wanting to just sleep off the emotional exhaustion of the past couple days.

Sherlock pauses and instead of going back downstairs, he steps fully into John’s room, standing just a few feet from him, a little uncomfortably.

“I have noticed,” he says in a neutral tone, “that when individuals react negatively to an unexpected change in a person, it is more often due to the cognitive dissonance caused by the conflict between the new behaviour and the perceived character or identity of a person they believe to know very well, rather than any intrinsic disapproval or abhorrence for the nature of the change.”

John swivels to stare at him, momentarily floored.

_For a man with an emotional IQ into negative numbers, this level of perceptiveness is stunning. Not so much the information itself – that falls reasonably in line with Sherlock’s ongoing study of human nature – but the fact that he was able to deduce what had happened at the conference and recognise that hearing it might be comforting to John at this particular moment._

John feels the burden that’s been weighing on him today lift as he’s reminded of why he’s here, why it’s worth living with this insane, impossible man. “Thanks. That was… good.”

Sherlock nods curtly, hesitates, and adds almost shyly, “It was very dim while you were gone. It’s brighter now.”

John reaches out and brushes Sherlock’s arm, smiling at last. “I missed you, too.”

“I thought perhaps you were angry with me.”

John shakes his head. “No…not really. A little annoyed and frustrated, but nothing out of the usual.” He grins to show he’s teasing. “Why did you think I was?”

“You were…too red. And staticky.”

“Red? I look red to you when I’m angry?”

“Like lava hitting the ocean.”

John steps closer to Sherlock, his previous task forgotten, and puts his arms loosely around his friend’s waist. Sherlock relaxes at his touch.

“And now?” John asks.

“Not angry. Bright and white and golden. Like a Christmas tree lit with candles… happy?”

“Happy,” John confirms, and realises that he really is. “Although if you really want to avoid any lava, you could always try being less of a complete dick about my non-you activities.”

Sherlock opens his mouth to retort, but before he can say anything they hear Mrs. Hudson yelling from the kitchen.

“Boys! You’ve got another one!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As we are obviously venturing into A Scandal in Belgravia timeline here, I just want to note that I have purposely (and for obvious reasons) left out any mention of John's Christmas girlfriend or Sherlock's presupposed virginity. It doesn't work with the established relationship in this series, so I'm simply ignoring it. Other than that I intend to stay on canon as much as possible when the story intersects with the events shown in the episode. =)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, I know this took ages! Thank you all for your patience and for those of you who contacted me to make sure I was okay. It's just been really busy at work and I had family visiting, which really puts a crimp on the homoerotic fanfic writing. Hopefully I'll be back to a more regular schedule of posting soon. Thanks for hanging in there with me! =)

John really has no idea how he goes from being hustled out the door, laptop in hand, to a crime scene to sitting in Buckingham Palace next to his naked, sheet-draped best friend, being hired for a new case by, apparently, the Queen. Who reads his blog. On the whole it’s turning out to be a very enjoyable day.

_Why on earth is Sherlock naked now? He’d been clothed when John left him. Perhaps he’d forgotten their guest and gone to take a shower and neglected to dress afterward. It doesn’t really matter – it’s all quite brilliant and Mycroft’s impotent fury at their utterly ridiculous situation is one of the most amusing things John has ever seen._

Despite his studied reluctance in front of his brother, Sherlock is all but salivating over this dominatrix case. It certainly is out of their usual scope. John has never seen Sherlock take quite so long to decide which of his many disguises and uniforms will suit his purpose in an investigation. The only thing he tells John about his plan is that John is to set off the fire alarm two minutes after Sherlock’s signal, once he’s alone with Ms. Adler. 

But really, the day is going along just splendidly until Sherlock punches John in the face. It all goes rather downhill after that. Distressed Stranger Sherlock is not a new one for John, although he’s not previously taken it to such an extreme, and they are ushered into Ms. Adler’s house with John dutifully playing the Helpful Bystander as is required of him.

 _The priest thing is a novel touch. John didn’t even know Sherlock had a clerical collar. It makes him very glad the detective doesn’t go in for role play in the bedroom – the amount they do outside of it is more than enough for John_.

However, the last thing John could have expected upon returning to Sherlock in the dominatrix’s surprisingly respectable sitting room is to see him straddled by a very beautiful, very naked woman. The image is so irrational that John can’t quite manage to process what he’s seeing. It’s far and away more surprising than being hijacked in a helicopter by the government to find Sherlock pants-less and defiant in one of the most hallowed buildings in the country.

It doesn’t help that Ms. Adler is one of the finest specimens of the female form he’s ever seen – and he’s seen a statistically significant sample. From her perfectly coiffed hair to her carmine lips to her flawless skin and breasts and hips and more, she is sex embodied, whispering and screaming at him, and John’s body is, unfortunately, listening. He shifts and futilely tries to will away any sign of interest or arousal, cursing his still-extant susceptibility to the fairer gender.

Sherlock looks from Irene to John and back again, and John realises with a start that not only is his friend completely thrown off balance but that Sherlock’s body is also responding to this brazen display. It’s almost undetectable but John knows even the tiniest signs, oh so very well. He finds Sherlock’s predicament entertaining for almost two whole seconds until he also realises that Sherlock is discomfited by her nakedness. Sherlock is never bothered by nakedness, his own or anyone else’s, as he’s well proved today. Except…

_John remembers the days before, before they had consummated their friendship, when even a hint of skin on John’s part threw Sherlock into a fury, never mind his own habit of wandering the flat completely disrobed. He’s never acted like that since, with John or anyone else. Only when he had been wanting, desiring, needing something that was in front of him but still out of reach._

Sherlock being flustered like this flusters John, and it’s only made worse by how she’s taunting John with words he’s not allowed to say, not allowed to hint at, and it’s fine as long as no one else says them either, but she does. She just lays them out there carelessly, with a knowing look at him and instantly he’s naked too, but not naked like she is, like a little boy caught with his trousers down.

_Somebody loves you._

John snaps, ruins everything, gives himself away to their opponent, allows his flash of jealousy and unease to give her the upper hand for a moment. And then she’s wrapping herself up in Sherlock’s coat, his _coat_ which might as well be his skin, with a level of familiar intimacy even he doesn’t dare uninvited. She’s wearing it like a trophy, smug and catlike as if she’s won a contest he didn’t even know he was in.

But he doesn’t have time to reflect on how ridiculous this line of thought is, because Sherlock has snapped him to attention and he’s back to doing his duty, standing guard, working in perfect harmony with his friend, exactly as it should be, exactly as they always are. Even through the smoke alarm and the gun to his head and the moment when they are both certain that Sherlock is going to have to watch John get his brains splattered all over the cream cashmere carpet and John isn’t sure which of them is about to suffer more, he feels like things are completely right. This is how it works. This is what they do.

And they keep doing it right until the moment John discovers an unconscious Sherlock on the floor of the woman’s bedroom and she flips out the window and evaporates, still naked except for the greatcoat, _Sherlock’s_ greatcoat, drawling a last parting shot and leaving him to tend to his defeated, incoherent friend.

_Nothing happened. Sherlock lost. It wasn’t the first time, and it’s good for him to remember he’s not invincible. He’s not permanently hurt. Neither is John. And their opponent isn’t exactly an axe murderer, so what if she’s still on the loose? Mycroft’s problem. On the whole, he should feel good about today. A draw’s as good as a win if you get a good story out of it. Right?_

John manages to get Sherlock out the door, eventually, by hoisting him over one shoulder like a gangly sack of potatoes and hauling him to the taxi. Trying to help him walk had only resulted in going in circles, though it had yielded a number of amusing videos for Lestrade and his boys. John doesn’t try and stop them because Sherlock can always use another check on his ego and, frankly, John’s running out of ideas.

Sherlock protests weakly as John stuffs him in the car, then slumps against the window, taking up most of the back seat. John settles opposite with a deep sigh.

_Normally after an incident like this John would have to hold Sherlock off with a stick until they managed to get home, the combination of the general danger, John’s heroism in taking down several assailants singlehandedly, and John’s near death experience making Sherlock half crazed with fear and desire, liable to tear off John’s clothes in the taxi and take him right there to make sure they both knew they were still alive, if John didn’t hold him back. John’s primed for it, his body aches for it even though he’s always terribly embarrassed by Sherlock’s lack of inhibition, always makes him wait until they’re somewhere private no matter how shaken he himself is, how desperately he needs the same comfort Sherlock seeks. Right now he almost regrets ever putting Sherlock off, even for a moment. Sherlock looks vulnerable and thin, head lolling back, face smushed against the glass._

“John, go around back, cut her off,” Sherlock mumbles. “Don’t let her get away.”

“Okay, Sherlock,” John agrees amiably. “Whatever you say.”

“Don’t let her get away! I need her. I need her back, I need to know…”

John feels that pit of discomfort forming in his gut again. “What do you need to know?”

Sherlock opens his mouth to answer and vomits all over John’s shoes.

 

 

John gets Sherlock to bed, not even bothering to try to undress him in his state, just laying him on the mattress and pulling the sheet over him, hoping he’ll sleep it off. John positions himself in the sitting room with the futile hope of getting some work done, strangely unsettled and tensed for any noise coming from the other room. When Sherlock does wake, calling for John, he’s hardly more coherent than he had been on the way home, babbling about the woman again, insisting that she was here, trying to get up and go after her.

John catches him, patience rapidly thinning, and drags him back to bed several times before he stays down. Still, he covers him back up tenderly and assures him that he’ll be close by if Sherlock needs him.

“Why would I need you?” Sherlock murmurs, sleep closing back in on him.

John sets his jaw. “No reason at all,” he grumbles, and goes into the kitchen for a glass of cold water. He runs his fingers through his hair and makes himself dissipate the flash of anger that is building.

_Sherlock is drugged, he’s not in control of himself. And even if he was, that sort of idle cruelty is par for the course with Sherlock, especially when he’s been thwarted. And of course he’s obsessed with a criminal who got away. It shouldn’t get to John like this – he’s accepted his status as default punching bag to a certain extent, it doesn’t bother him because he can handle himself, give as good as he gets when he needs to. Why on earth should he care now? He must just be tired. It’s been a long day. Everything will be better in the morning._

Still, he feels a strange reluctance to assume his usual place in Sherlock’s bed and the fact that Sherlock is currently sprawled diagonally across it, taking up every square centimetre possible with feet still hanging off the end, isn’t an incentive. Instead, John trudges up the stairs to his room, rarely used, little more than a storage closet at this point but still his own space. He has that, at least.

He pulls back the slightly stale bedclothes and crawls under them, willing himself to fall asleep immediately, grateful for his ability to blank his mind out under almost any conditions. He doesn’t remember his head hitting the pillow.

           

 

It’s not the dawn light that wakes him, but the sense of not being alone in his room. He knows at once the presence is Sherlock and doesn’t start, opening his eyes slowly to see the tall detective sitting cross-legged at his feet, observing him silently.

_The cut on Sherlock’s face from John’s fist is still red and angry but there are new marks too, livid welts on his knuckles, marks John didn’t make and hasn’t seen before, even though he knows every blemish on his friend’s skin. From the scrape on his shin where he’d dinged it against a fire escape during a chase six days ago to the matching bruises on his hips in the shape on John’s thumbs and forefingers, fading reminders of their recent idyll – the new wounds, minor though they are, scream at John like a siren._

John sits up without a word and waits for Sherlock to speak.

“You slept here last night.”

John nods. “How are you feeling?”

“Splitting headache, dry mouth, patchy memory, nausea,” Sherlock says dismissively. “I prefer you to sleep downstairs.”

“I know.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “In fact, as I’ve mentioned many times, having an entire room of the flat that is barely used is really a terrible waste of space, there are so many better things—”

John interrupts with a pointed cough, and Sherlock falls silent reluctantly, judging that this is not the time though clearly not sure why. John changes the subject aggressively, forcing a light-hearted tone. “Well, that was a hell of a day! From Buckingham Palace to almost getting my head blown off… and that _woman_! She was a piece of work. On the whole, more than enough excitement for the week, I’d say.”

Sherlock grins, his face and eyes lighting up. “Oh John, I wouldn’t say that! I would say it wasn’t nearly enough. Besides, _you_ seemed to take to her well enough,” he adds snidely.

John flushes at the memory of his response, how he’d felt the warmth spreading in his loins and how his heart had skipped a beat at the sight of her. He had hoped the drugging would have made Sherlock forget.

“What are you so cheerful about, anyway?” he snaps. “She got away.”

“Exactly,” Sherlock beams at him. “I lost. She beat me!” His tone is awed. Enchanted. Delighted.

_Sherlock Holmes doesn’t like women. It’s not merely that he’s not attracted to them sexually or romantically. It’s that he has no interest in them at all, and seems to regard them as an entirely separate species, one that’s far too much trouble to attempt making contact with unless a particular female has something to offer in the way of a case or assistance or expertise. There are obvious exceptions, but in general he seems to view the entirety of femininity as something completely out of his sphere, alien and superfluous to his existence, and therefore of no consequence unless there is an immediate reason for it to be. Like the solar system. Then again, that’s how he treats most people. And things. But John has never seen him react to anyone – or anything – like this. Not even Moriarty._

John doesn’t know what to say to that, but apparently Sherlock doesn’t require a response. He jumps to his feet and grabs John’s wrist.

“Come on. Mycroft will be here in…” His lips move silently for a moment, as if he is calculating the exact number of minutes it takes for the elder Holmes to brush his teeth and the length of time for a car to get across town in morning traffic. “…thirty-seven minutes. I’m sure he’ll be wanting to hear all about it.”

John dresses while Sherlock looks on impatiently and they go down together. Sherlock has somehow wheedled Mrs. Hudson into making them breakfast and they eat while Sherlock and Mycroft spar over the case. It’s comfortingly domestic, from Sherlock pretending to read the paper in his dressing gown to the fraternal antagonism to the hot oatmeal and tea, and John feels the previous day begin to recede like a bad dream.

Even the revelation of Sherlock’s slightly obscene personalised text sound isn’t enough to ruin his growing good humour. In the light of day it all just seems like a juvenile joke, a pitiful grab for attention from an inconsequential person. 

_Sherlock doesn’t give him enough credit. John may not be as fast or brilliant but he gets there eventually. He knows how that alert got in Sherlock’s mobile, and how Sherlock got those welts on his hand. He knows he wasn’t the only man in the room affected by Ms. Adler’s crass sensuality. And he knows Sherlock suspects far more than he’s telling about her and the contents of her phone. What does it matter, though? Let Sherlock have his illusion of mystery if it makes him happy. John’s just glad to put it behind them, let it fade into the realm of the ridiculous and unknowable, and watch Sherlock torment his older brother._

He grins widely as Sherlock plays the older man out to “God Save the Queen”.

“You have no intention of letting this case go, do you?” he asks, when Sherlock finally sets down the violin.

“Well, it did nearly get you shot. I would think you’d be more invested in the reasons behind that.”

“The only things I’m invested in are those tickets I bought to the New York Symphony that we didn’t get to use last night. That wasn’t exactly what I had envisioned for a date. Granted, Americans, nudity, and a riding crop were all part of the plan, but hardly in the combination that we ended up with.”

Sherlock snorts. “So, the ketamine would have been just an added bonus, then?” he deadpans, and then they both crack up.

“God, your brother might have a point about us acting like grown-ups,” John says, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes.

Sherlock makes a face that indicates that he couldn’t agree less, and claps John on the shoulder. “Now,” he says brightly, rubbing his hands together. “Don’t you think it’s time we attended to the extremely dangerous and convoluted case of Mr. Abel Bryant and the Society for Ginger Advancement?”

“When you say ‘we’…”

“Well, it’s only a five right now John,” Sherlock informs him primly. “I put the address in your phone. Take a coat, it’s chilly.”

He picks up the violin again while John gathers his things.

“That’s interesting,” John comments on the tune, which is slow but rich and vibrant. “Have you played that before?”

“Hmm? Oh, just something I’ve been working on. Now, are you talking or are you leaving?”

 


	4. Chapter 4

John goes to Bryant’s place of work with far less reluctance than he shows to Sherlock. It’s good to be doing something that has nothing whatsoever to do with Ms. Adler or Mycroft. And Sherlock might be pretend he’s less than riveted by this case, but John knows it’s an act – he’s beyond intrigued.

The company is large, with several floors of shiny, new offices attached to a massive complex of warehouses and factories. Bryant wasn’t kidding that it was a good job. It must be the largest paper manufacturer in London, perhaps in all of England  For all it’s size, though, it’s surprisingly deserted when John enters, well before noon. He realises belatedly that it’s a bank holiday – of course hardly anyone is working today.

_So easy to lose track of time, of day and weeks and dates of all kinds in Sherlock’s orbit, when sleep and meals are a matter of allowance by casework and adhere to no regular schedule. Nothing is ever predictable._

Then again, there is at least a receptionist on the front desk, and it might not be a bad thing to have fewer people observe his investigations. He wonders if Sherlock had thought of that, or if he even knows what day of the week it is presently.

The girl in reception is beautiful, with light cocoa eyes and hair and skin, over which a handful of espresso freckles has been artfully sprinkled. John feels himself adjust his posture as he approaches, automatically straightening, smiling, becoming attentive to her. He reproves himself – she cannot be more than twenty – yet she returns the smile with more than just the politeness of the job, looking him over and apparently not finding anything wanting.

He flirts with her almost by rote, feeling guilty at the rush of pleasure from her admiration and telling himself that this what Sherlock would have him do, why the detective sent him in the first place.

_Sherlock can turn on the charm, blindingly, but it’s work for him and he can’t hold it long. He prefers to rely on John’s innate likeability, his genuine and nearly boundless attraction to the opposite sex, wielding John’s personality like one of his lock-pick tools, even from afar._

“Abel?” She giggles as if the man himself is a joke. “No, he’s not in today – hardly anyone is. I could take a message, or you… could leave your phone number and I could call you up when he’s here. Or….some other time?”

Her too-obvious coquettishness, brassy and unpractised, brings home just how young she really is and John dials back from the encounter, trying to figure out how to get a look around without her appointing herself his own personal tour guide.

Luck is with him then, an older woman with “supervisor” scrawled all over her sour expression breaks in from behind the desk – John realises with a start that  she’s been there this whole time, he simply hadn’t noticed her presence at all.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Miss Callan,” she snaps. “Of course _Mister_ Bryant is here – he came in about two hours ago and is still in his office. What use are you if you can’t even keep track of the employees? For the love of Christendom, look at your computer once in awhile.”

Miss Callan looks entirely unabashed by the tongue lashing, although somewhat put out as John switches his attentions to her superior.

“I’m sorry… ma’am… did you say you’ve seen Mr. Bryant today?”

She snorts harshly at him. “I don’t need to have, we track the ID of every employee who walks through the door electronically. This isn’t the Dark Ages. But as it happens, I walked by his office and saw him in there, working away. Good man. He doesn’t have to come in today, like we do.”

John successfully sweet-talks his way into being allowed to visit Bryant’s office unaccompanied and breathes a sigh of relief. He wonders if he can get out without passing either the crone or the over-eager maiden again.

The office is easy to find and empty, although the light on and warmth of the computer tells him it was recently occupied and may soon be again.  Like Bryant himself it is a little homely and chaotic, though seemingly random piles of paperwork speak of a personal organisation system opaque to anyone but its progenitor. John is familiar with this method, and would bet the man can pull out any needed item or document instantly upon request. A few personal items and photos inhabit the space, but nothing seems significant or out of place.

John’s phone buzzes for the fourteenth time since he’s left Baker Street and he finally looks at it, although he’d have been able to guess the contents of the texts without needing to consult it.

**Have you found the place yet? SH.**

**Don’t warn Bryant that you’re coming. SH.**

**If he’s not there, best pretend you’ve got a delivery. SH.**

**Send me pictures. I need data. SH.**

**We’re out of food. Pick up dinner. SH.**

**Aren’t you there YET?? SH.**

And so on. John smiles to himself. If he responded to Sherlock’s every text, or even half of them in situations like this, he’d never get anything done, and Sherlock knows it.

_It does make him wonder if he was ever in serious peril on an expedition how long the unresponsiveness would need to continue before his friend deduced that John was not just ignoring him and that something was actually amiss._

John continues his search, debating whether it’s worth trying to access Bryant’s computer while he’s out or just wait until he returns and explain himself. His glance falls beside the keyboard, on an employee ID card strung on a lanyard, laying forlorn and abandoned. It’s Bryant’s, complete with unflattering picture and personalised bar code.

John picks it up and just as he is thinking that this doesn’t seem like the sort of place one wanders about without one’s ID, even on a holiday, a slight noise behind him makes him spin towards the door, crouching a little, unconsciously, as his body readies itself for any potential threat.

He finds himself face to face with Abel Bryant. Only…not. The man is of the same height and build as their client dressed in the same style, with the same flaming red hair and slight thinning at the crown. But it’s not him.

The stranger freezes, and John can see the indecision flash momentarily across his face before he settles on an offensive tack. “What are you doing in my office?” he demands, doing a decent impression of being genuinely affronted. “Put that down and get out before I call security!”

John smiles at him wolfishly. “Nice try,” he says. “You might be close enough to fool an old woman without her glasses, from behind, but I actually know Mr. Bryant and my eyesight is just fine. I can see from your stance that you’re not armed, so why don’t you just sit down and we can talk this over?”

The man looks deflated and John relaxes ever so slightly, motioning him to the chair in front of him. He is unprepared for the sudden lunge, without any tell, for the ID card in his hand, and just barely manages to hold it out of reach. He is somewhat more prepared for the ensuing roundhouse kick aimed at his chest, though still startled by the strength and speed of the smaller man’s attack. John manages to deflect the kick and move close enough to get in a punch or two of his own, hoping the immediate vicinity is deserted enough for no one to hear the scuffle.

_John’s blood is pounding, his mind alert and high on the adrenaline from the fight. He hates to admit that in moments like these he feels a thousand times more himself than he does at almost any other time, with the possible exceptions of when he is doing emergency surgery or in the throes of passion. He thrives on the thrill and, shamefully, on the savagery._

His hook connects with jawbone, but in doing so John loosens his grip on the ID card just enough for his opponent to tear it out of his hands. The man spits blood at him and turns on a dime, fleeing down the hall toward the centre of the vast complex. John is instantly in hot pursuit – the little devil is fast, but John is no stranger to impromptu foot chases and the slipperiness of the recently buffed floors level the playing field a bit more. Still the man is a good twenty feet beyond John when he crashes to a halt in front of an unmarked door and waves the ID before the pad beside it.

John reaches it just in time to grab hold of a tweed sleeve as he slips through, but the door slams shut with heavy steel finality and John has to jump back to avoid having his arm sliced off. He finds himself standing alone, with nothing but a slightly worn jacket in his hands and a deep bone bruise on his upper arm to show for his pursuit.

He swears wearily, crumpling the jacket under one arm, and starts looking for the nearest exit.

 

“Did you get dinner?” Sherlock’s question reaches John’s ears before he’s fully gotten inside the door.

“What? No… I was a little busy.” John tosses the jacket at him and sinks stiffly into his chair.

Sherlock looks him over, completely devoid of empathy once he assures himself of the lack of blood or other sign of severe injury on his friend. He opens his mouth to say something, but a loud, feminine “ _Ahhhhhhhh_ ” issues vulgarly from his pocket and he fishes out his mobile to inspect the missive.

“Don’t you want to know what happened?” John asks, peevishly. “I did go all that way…”

Sherlock replaces the phone and focuses again on John. “I presume you went to Bryant’s office, discovered an imposter there, wearing his clothes judging by this jacket, engaged in a fight and pursuit, and then allowed him to escape without finding out any meaningful information from him.”

John rolls his eyes. “Why do I even bother?” he grumbles, rubbing his arm.

“Because of details, John! Now, tell me everything.” Sherlock hunkers down across from John and turns his full attention on him, as usual both unsettling and flattering.

_To have those grey eyes on you, bottomless and questioning, to know that at this moment only you can give them what they seek is heady stuff. John has never been able to inure himself to the power of it, the way it electrifies him from head to toe until Sherlock chooses to release him._

John relates the story as accurately as he can remember.

“The ID badge…” Sherlock mulls, when he’s done.

“Yes, the imposter seemed quite keen on it, like nothing else mattered. Maybe he just knew it was his quickest escape?”

Sherlock shakes his head and smiles knowingly at John. “Tell me, why would a paper company have an unmarked, reinforced door that requires a badge to get through?”

“You think they do something other than make paper?”

“Mmm… what? Don’t be an idiot. Now shut up and let me think!”

John shrugs and moves to get up, but Sherlock swiftly shoves him back down into his chair.

“I said, let me think!”

John sighs theatrically and settles in as his friend’s eyes go glassy before him, looking through John and focusing on something either very far away or, more likely, deep inside his own head.

_Sherlock uses John like a totem when he’s thinking. Or maybe just like a filter through which to distil his own deductions. Sometimes this involves talking at John – whether or not John is actually there – for hours on end, but other times it just seems to require John’s presence in his vicinity while he ponders._

“Have it your way, you mad wanker,” John mumbles at Sherlock’s unhearing figure. He’s not sure how much time passes, but the next thing he knows Sherlock’s mouth is to his ear barking his name unnecessarily loudly, and it’s dark outside.

“Jesus Christ, piss off,” John snaps, pushing Sherlock’s head away from his and shaking himself. “What time is it?”

“Gone nine. You’re useless, aren’t you?”

John pulls at his still-ringing ear. “I’m sure you find having a good think to be endlessly entertaining, but if all I’m allowed to do is sit there as you imitate a statue, I might as well get some rest while you’re at it. Now, did you figure anything out?”

Sherlock angular features split into a wide grin. “Oh, yes!”

“Well, what?”

“Don’t know yet. Now are you ever going to get us something to eat or do I have to miss tea as well?”

John grumbles but realises he also hasn’t eaten since breakfast and slowly gets up and collects himself to go out. “I thought you didn’t eat while you were working.”

_Sherlock often merrily contradicts his own stated habits, although John has noticed recently that he seems to being making more of an effort to take care of himself, at least when he’s not utterly absorbed by something else. John wonders if Sherlock is actually doing it for his sake, like the abstinence from drugs._

“This? Barely qualifies as work. Child’s play. Well, mostly. Now, hurry up, we’ll be getting a call from Bryant before midnight.”

“A call? Why?”

“Why, to tell us his house has been robbed, I expect,” Sherlock replies calmly. “I’d like to eat first, if you don’t mind.”

 

John returns with a biriyani for two, and no sooner have they finished it than Sherlock’s phone rings.

“Hello, Mr. Bryant,” Sherlock answers in a sickly cheerful voice. “Oh dear, you don’t say, how awful, be right over, bye byeee!” Sherlock looks triumphantly at John, who can’t quite hide a smile at his cocky enthusiasm. “Shall we, then?”

Bryant’s townhouse is older, but in a nice neighbourhood, and very well kept up. He meets them at the door, looking haggard and nervous.

“Have you called the police?” Sherlock demands, pushing inside past him.

“N-no… you said to leave them out of it, so I just called you straight away. I’ve been away for a couple of days, thought a little holiday might help my—”

“Excellent,” Sherlock cuts him off. “Come on, John, don’t dawdle.”

John follows Sherlock through the door and is greeted by a scene of complete chaos. The impeccably furnished home has been completely ransacked, furniture overturned, pictures on the ground, clothes and small items strewn everywhere.

Sherlock begins his usual inspection, scrutinizing and sniffing as he makes a systematic circuit around the house, while John scans the rooms more haphazardly, hoping to catch something at random.

_He’ll never have Sherlock’s laser like ability to focus on details or the scope of knowledge to put all the minutiae together, but more than once he’s noticed something in the big picture that Sherlock’s myopia bypassed, even though he’s rarely able to deduce its full meaning. He always feels more at loose ends at cases like these than when there’s medical opinion to be taken, but he’s picked up a few tricks over the past year and tries to be as observant as he can._

“What did they take?” Sherlock asks Bryant, running his finger through the dust on a still-intact grandfather clock.

“I-I’m not sure. I haven’t looked yet.”

Sherlock’s head snaps towards him. “Then let’s talk about what they didn’t take.” He towers over the smaller man. “They didn’t take your television, stereo, computer, antique end tables, original impressionist paintings, or even the secret and significant store of cash you keep in a condensed milk tin in the back of the icebox. What does that say to you?”

“I…I don’t know…” Bryant looks more frightened than ever.

Sherlock makes a disgusted sound and turns to John. “Care to do any better?”

John furrows his brow in concentration. “Maybe that they wanted to scare him? Or that they want something that only he has, not something they could get just anywhere?”

“I already know one thing they took, do you John? Mr. Bryant, you will find you are missing several items of clothing, including a tweed jacket with leather patches at the elbows. Additionally, I suspect that you will also be missing a hairbrush, favourite mug, and several other small personal items. Beyond that, nothing should else should be gone. Except, of course, your employee identification card, which you will likely find either in your car or your office tomorrow morning when you go to work, to make it seem like you simply forgot it.”

_John starts to feel it as Sherlock speaks, all the evidence coming together, coalescing around him. He can’t quite verbalise it yet, but almost and he knows as soon as Sherlock says it will seems so clear as to have been impossible not to see all along._

“My ID card? And clothing, hairbrush… B-but why? I don’t understand.”

Sherlock looks beyond pleased with himself as he circles Bryant’s trembling form. “Are you aware that your security clearance within your company has been vastly upgraded in the past several months? No? I’m not surprised. You did mention having records of signing orders and other actions you have no memory of. It’s all true. I hacked into your company’s computer system this evening – which, you may wish to pass on, is not as secure as all that despite looking very fancy indeed – and found out that not only have you been given access to every level and area of the company, even those which the existence of you may be unaware, but that you have been very busy during hours when you weren’t in the office.”

“Why would anyone do that?”

“Don’t you get it? Not just the security upgrade, but imposters making it look you were there when you weren’t, so that your coworkers would swear to seeing you? And now they’ve taken personal items, distinctive ones as well ones that would yield hairs, skin flakes, DNA! Someone is setting you up, Mr. Bryant. They’re setting you up for something very, very big.”

Bryant gives a squeak of panic. “For what?”

Sherlock shrugs. “Not enough data yet, although I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have three good ideas and six mediocre ones.”

_Mediocre ideas to Sherlock are still more brilliant than John can think of most days, and he’s certainly right about the set up. But he can’t make the burglary quite add up in his head yet._

“Hold up,” says John. “Whoever it is has access to his office, why bother breaking in here? Wouldn’t there be plenty of items they could use from there?”

“Not bad, John. But lots of people go in and out of an office, and there are cleaners. They wanted to be certain they got Bryant’s cells, his DNA, his hair, and no chance of contamination with anyone else’s.”

“All right, but then why all the mess? Why not just slip in quietly and take what they wanted? Things like that, wouldn’t most people just assume they’d misplaced them in the house? No need to cause all this alarm.”

“You said it before, they want him scared. They want him unstable and acting oddly. When whatever is being planned happens and Bryant goes down for it, they want everyone around him to remember how edgy and off balance he’s been and think how obvious it was that he was up to something.”

“So what do I do?” Bryant asks, recalling both their attentions suddenly. “Can I go to the police now? Or maybe my bosses?”

Sherlock snorts derisively. “It’s too late for that, all you’ll be doing is pointing them to the fact that for all appearances you’ve been doing all sorts of things you oughtn’t. No, the only way out for you it to let it play out and we’ll catch them when they spring their trap for you Which means you must act as normally as you possibly can. Go on with your work, with everything as if you had no idea what was going on, but be alert. And go over your house very carefully – I suspect they also may have left some small items that might be incriminating to you later on, but I can’t tell you what. Just look for anything unfamiliar or –”

_“Ahhhhhhh.”_

Bryant jumps. “My God, what was that?”

“Sherlock, haven’t you changed that tone back yet?” John snaps. “Don’t worry, my friend’s phone is just being inappropriate. It does that. Sherlock, what were you saying to him? Sherlock!”

_The text alert is starting to get on his nerves, particularly now that it’s happening in public, requiring awkward explanations. Or perhaps it’s not the alert but the fact that the owner of it seems capable of commanding Sherlock’s instant and complete attention at any moment, regardless of present company or business._

Sherlock finally looks up from his mobile. “What? Oh yes. Look for anything you don’t remember seeing before, however small or insignificant, even a new stain on a piece of clothing. Now, you can call the police to report this, it would look funny if you didn’t, but don’t tell them anything we’ve talked about, just say you came home and found the place this way with nothing missing. They won’t find any fingerprints or evidence of the culprits and it will die quietly. Then just carry on until something else happens or you hear from one of us—”

As Sherlock is issuing instructions to the overwhelmed Bryant, John’s eyes fall on the doorjamb next to him. He reaches out and plucks something hanging from a splinter. “Sherlock…”

The detective glares at the interruption and then sees what John is holding carefully between gloved fingers and his expression changes to elation. “Oh, _yes_!” he exclaims, taking the two long strands of bright red hair from John. “Well spotted.”

_John can’t help but glow with pride at his find, a little embarrassed at how easily his annoyance is pushed aside by even the smallest amount of recognition._

Sherlock examines them meticulously with his lens before dropping them into an evidence bag, stowing them in his pocket, and looking, if possible, more smug than before.

“All right, out with it. What did you just learn?” John prods him.

“Well, I can tell you one thing, Mr. Bryant. It’s not your Ginger club that’s out to get you.”

“But the red hair…”

“Oh yes, it was _very_ red wasn’t it? But it was dyed that way. Goodnight, Mr. Bryant. Remember what I told you.” And with that Sherlock sweeps out into the night, leaving John to make a hurried apology on his behalf and offer some quick, bracing words of reassurance before trotting after him.

“Do you think that was dramatic enough?” John needles, upon catching up with his lanky companion. “Would you like to try it again and be a bit more mysterious?”

“I told him what he needed to know. You too.”

“But not everything you know, obviously.”

_Sherlock never tells John everything, and it’s always maddening. John’s mostly given up taking offense at it. It’s part of Sherlock’s process, to be able to come out with a fully-developed theory to wow his audience instead of revealing it piecemeal. Still, John’s more than just an audience, or ought to be._

“Everything I know, not everything I suspect. All things in their time. But one thing is for sure, whoever is doing this is intimately familiar with the Society for Ginger Advancement and desperately wants Bryant – and us – to think they’re the ones responsible. Two levels of set-ups. Brilliant.”

_“Ahhhhhhh”_

“Sherlock, I swear to God…” John exclaims angrily, but Sherlock waves dismissively at him after glancing briefly at the message.

 “Now, there’s not much we can do right now. We need to wait until they make their next move, and I suspect that won’t be for some time. I have some hunches to follow up on, but for now I think we need to worry about more pressing concerns.”

“Pressing concerns? Like what?”

“Like,” replies Sherlock grimly, “the fact that Mrs. Hudson thinks our flat would be the perfect location in which to host a Christmas party.”


	5. Chapter 5

“Come on, it will be fun,” John coaxes. Sherlock has taken refuge in John’s room while Mrs. Hudson fills the lower floor of the flat with food and decorations for the party tomorrow. He’s sitting cross-legged on John’s bed, petulant and dishevelled in a way makes him look positively edible.

_John likes the holidays well enough as it is, and the thought of having them with Sherlock has put him in a cheerfully amorous mood._

“Why on earth would it be _fun_?” Sherlock spits.

“Because… it’s Christmas! Drinks and games and all our friends… and you promised to play for everyone, remember? Too late to back out now.”

Sherlock scoffs. “One of those things sounds appealing.”

“Two. You love playing because everyone tells you how good you are.”

Sherlock looks less than convinced and John crosses the room and climbs onto the bed, pushing Sherlock back gently against the pillows.

“I don’t think you hate Christmas nearly as much as you like everyone to think,” he tells Sherlock in a low voice. “In fact, I think you quite enjoy it.”

John pulls himself on top of the unresisting detective and begins to ever so gently nip at his prominent collarbone. Sherlock stifles a moan.

_That soft sound combined with the sight of the bared, endless, ivory throat vulnerable before him, sends shockwaves of longing directly to John’s loins._

“Why… why would you think that?” Sherlock manages in a voice that approaches, but doesn’t quite reach, normal.

“Because you’re still here,” answers John, teasing fingers dancing up the inside Sherlock’s naked arm as he holds his face just inches away from his lover’s.

Sherlock’s inner struggle between his natural curmudgeon and the desire John has set coursing through his veins is written all over his face. He hesitates for just a moment too long, and then, at last, cranes his neck up to take John’s mouth in his and kisses him violently, dragging John’s head back down with him and using his agile legs to slam John’s pelvis against his.

John breaks from the kiss laughing in sheer delight and runs a hand up under Sherlock’s thin t-shirt, fondling every well-defined muscle in his path.

“You look like Christmas sometimes,” Sherlock tells him, a little breathlessly, putting his hands to John’s waist and running them down to caress his jeans-clad arse.

“Do I?” asks John, working off Sherlock’s shirt and beginning to methodically explore the rangy torso with his mouth.

_He could spend hours just here, tasting every last patch of smooth skin, following every line and curve of Sherlock’s chest with his tongue, testing his firm stomach with lips and teeth._

“Yes. Like the tree lit up and fire in the fireplace and sparklers and… _ungh_!” Sherlock gasps as John’s questing tongue finds his sensitive nipple and begins doing filthy things to it.

John releases him after a moment and looks down into his face fondly. “Nightmare. Absolute fucking nightmare.”

The corners of Sherlock’s mouth twitch upwards, but then his expression grows serious and he frowns. “You’re not going to wear the jumper, are you?” Sherlock demands.

John grins. “Oh, I have to wear the jumper.”

“John…”

“It’s Christmas. I have to wear the jumper, Sherlock. Think of it as a present for you.”

“Why the hell would I want that?”

“Because,” John whispers, ducking down to nibble on Sherlock’s earlobe. “You get to take it off me after.”

“You make… a compelling…argument…” Sherlock murmurs distractedly as John grabs his hand and places one long index finger firmly in his mouth. He holds the base of it in his teeth as he licks ruthlessly around it, keeping Sherlock’s gaze shamelessly all the while. Sherlock eyes are riveted to John’s face, watching transfixed as he sucks Sherlock’s finger deeper into his throat, swallowing against it, using it as an instrument of his own satisfaction in a way that has clearly not previously occurred to Sherlock.

_He worships Sherlock’s hands, the things they can do and the things that can be done to them. He’s had them on and in every part of his body and it’s never enough. He wants it to never be enough._

“This Christmas,” John whispers around the elegant digit, “I want to fuck every last part of your body. Is that all right with you?”

Sherlock can now only whimper in response. John repeats this performance with the other fingers on Sherlock’s right hand, deliberate and unhurried as he feels the tension build in Sherlock’s body beneath him until the younger man is panting and paralyzed with his need, his brain short-circuited by the stimulus.

John guides Sherlock’s hand to the top button of his shirt and Sherlock obediently begins to undo it, sliding it off of John’s shoulders and dragging his fingernails sharply down John’s back as he does so. John closes his eyes and arches against Sherlock’s hands, rubbing himself on Sherlock’s hardness and groaning deeply.

He rolls off of Sherlock, and off of the bed, taking hold of Sherlock’s feet and pulling him sharply to the edge of the mattress. He kneels prayerfully between Sherlock’s legs and Sherlock pushes himself up on his elbows to watch as John slowly eases the waistband of his pyjama bottoms down, bit by tiny bit, like he is revealing a precious treasure.

_Sherlock’s whole body is a treasure, but especially the parts only John is allowed access to, the parts he gets to discover anew each time they are together._

John follows the progress of his hands with his mouth, starting at Sherlock’s bellybutton and kissing downward along the faint trail of dark hair below it, giving each place due attention as it becomes available. At last he reaches the border of a deep and fragrant forest, and he immerses himself in it, pulling the fabric at last over the swollenness of Sherlock’s cock and off him completely.

He puts his hands to Sherlock’s jutting hipbones and glances briefly up at his friend, who is watching him with sharp, focused hunger shining in his sea-glass eyes. John wraps his fingers around Sherlock, enjoying the sight of his lean thigh muscles contracting in anticipation. John nuzzles softly around the base of him, inhaling him, as Sherlock lets out little halting breaths of pleasure with each movement John makes. He gives Sherlock’s testes a long, slow lick, the promise of more to come, and is just about to turn his attention to Sherlock’s enticingly dewy tip…

“ _Ahhhhhhhh_.”

Both men’s heads snap instantly in the direction of Sherlock’s mobile on the bedside table, then back to each other where they find themselves frozen in a suddenly awkward tableau.

_Of course it would happen now, it’s always happening just at the times Sherlock’s attention should be most on him, it’s like she knows somehow. He’s kneeling in submission with a cock in his hand and nearly in his mouth and now all his partner can think of is the woman on the other end of a text. Hell, it’s all he can think of either, though for entirely different reasons._

John feels a blind fury bubbling up, even as panic dances across Sherlock’s face and then is quickly suppressed. “Are you going to check that?” John asks in his coolest and most even tone.

Sherlock maintains eye contact stubbornly, licks his lips just once, and replies very carefully and with only the slightest hesitation to betray the fact that the decision took any thought at all, “Check what, John?”

John forces himself to relax, to bite back the anger and jealousy that makes him want to storm out of the room and leave Sherlock there, exposed and unfulfilled. He knows he should reward Sherlock for making the right choice, prioritizing him, but what he really wants is to punish Sherlock for the fact that he would even consider doing something different, that he even has to fight the urge to come running at her call. For the fact that he’s left his phone on, for the fact that he’s never changed that damned text alert, for the fact of the woman’s existence at all.

_Sherlock’s trying to understand, trying to please John. What John must look like in his rage to Sherlock at the moment he wonders, but will not ask. He feels red-hot and spitting, like a solar storm arcing out to consume worlds._

He tries to gather himself to continue as if nothing has changed, trying to banish all thoughts unrelated to the task at hand, but it’s too late, she’s already won by inserting herself into both their brains and that can’t be undone.

Sherlock sees his reluctance and for a moment John thinks it’s all over, that their intimacy is about to crumble at this false note and become nothing more than a tainted memory. But instead, Sherlock turns animated, in one smooth movement jumping up, pulling John to his feet, spinning him around and bending him roughly over the end of the bed.

John’s stomach drops and his breathing quickens as Sherlock leans over him and puts his mouth to John’s ear and growls in his most predatory voice, “You’re mine John Watson. Don’t forget it. You’re mine and I’m going to have you right now.”

Sherlock uses one hand to keep John down on the bed (an unnecessary precaution) while tearing at John’s belt and the fastenings of John’s jeans with the other, until he manages to loosen them enough to yank them down over John’s resurging erection. Sherlock kneels behind him and places both hands firmly on his bared arse. John’s heart skips a beat as he feels himself being spread apart and trembles expectantly as Sherlock’s hot breath draws nearer.

Sherlock starts at his perineum and licks upward in long, deep, sure strokes. He develops a slow but constant rhythm with his tongue, unrelenting and unwavering, that makes John tingle and ache in places he didn’t even know he had.

“Sherlock,” he gasps and he feels Sherlock smile against him, though he does not miss a beat in his lapping.

_He is being worn away at, like the stream wears at the mountain, thinking that eventually he will be reduced to nothing but a nub of raw bliss under Sherlock’s ministrations._

John lets go of all conscious thought, the last of his anger, and any inkling of the existence of the woman at all, indulging completely in the velvety warmth of Sherlock’s ceaseless pulsing against him. It is like being cast into a warm pool and finding that he can float without any effort at all. The pleasure is intense, but not overwhelming, building slowly but never quite pushing him over the edge. He allows himself to get lost in the sensation so completely that it’s a shock when after long minutes it finally stops.

Sherlock gets to his feet behind John, wiping his mouth, and John feels the hot hardness of him against his skin. John steels himself to take the thick girth of his friend inside him, but instead Sherlock slots himself carefully between John’s saliva-slicked buttocks, holding tightly to John’s shoulders as he slides himself up and down, gliding over but never breaching John’s entrance.

The sensation is unexpectedly strong, but delicate and complex, different from either being fucked or fucking. They move together against each other, undulating in sync. John clenches, wrapping his ankles around Sherlock’s calves to keep them as tight together as possible, and Sherlock snakes a hand forward to stroke John almost harshly as he pumps faster against him.

_To be in Sherlock’s hands, to be at his mercy, John wants nothing more in this moment, nothing more than to be the object of Sherlock’s desire._

John feels his climax begin to swell with this additional stimulation and makes no attempt to delay it, rutting back urgently against Sherlock and working himself more deeply into his large, dextrous hand by turns. He feels Sherlock’s tongue along his spine now, and the taller man is mouthing words into his skin that he can’t decipher but knows are urging him on.

John obeys, shuddering at last into Sherlock’s stilled hand, the merciless beating against him extending the crescendo and building it to dizzying heights until John loses all strength and collapses against the duvet, content to allow Sherlock to use his body for as long as he wants while John rides the final notes down into pleasant exhaustion.

It doesn’t take long. John has barely clawed his way back to coherence when he feels the hitch in Sherlock’s tempo that means he is close. John pulls tighter around him as Sherlock slows incrementally and digs his fingers hard into John’s shoulder, his breathing rough. John rolls his hips back as Sherlock pushes forward against him and that last movement is enough. Sherlock gives a keening cry and twitches sharply, and John can feel every pulse and throb more vividly than if Sherlock were in him, feel the sticky heat of Sherlock’s release on the small of his back.

Sherlock falls to the bed beside John, who shifts himself up the rest of the way onto the mattress and rolls on his side to face him. Sherlock’s gaze flicks ever so briefly to the bedside table, but John grabs his face in both hands and kisses him deeply.

“Happy Christmas,” he says.

“Christmas isn’t for two days,” Sherlock informs him.

“Shut up.”

“Yes, John.” Sherlock closes his eyes, basking in the afterglow and allowing John to affectionately toy with his mop of curls. At last John sighs and says, “I’d better get cleaned up and go help Mrs. Hudson. Or she’s going to come up here to find us. Coming?”

Sherlock gives a grunt that manages to indicate that he has no intention of doing anything at all for quite some time, and John plants one last kiss on his full lips and fumbles his way to his feet.

“Don’t you have work to do? What about the Bryant case?”

“I told you,” Sherlock mumbles, “nothing is going to happen until at least February. Well, I say nothing… We needn’t concern ourselves at present.”

John shrugs and pulls back on his shirt and jeans, hoping he can get to the bathroom before being spotted, and pauses in the doorway.

“Oh, and Sherlock?”

“Mmm.”

“Tomorrow at the party… wear the aubergine, would you?”

“Why?” Sherlock doesn’t open his eyes.

“Because taking _that_ off you will be _my_ Christmas present.” John grins as he sees Sherlock’s eyelids flutter involuntarily in response, and heads downstairs.

 

 

 

Their little party is a success, at least at first. Sherlock is in rare spirits, playing carols on his violin beautifully, and if he can’t stop thinking about work or deducing his friend’s lives, he at least seems to think he doing so in a playful manner. Of course most people don’t find it cute at all, and thus the rather small number of people gathered here tonight. The only ones stubborn enough to remain despite the constant stream of insults and painful, unasked for information about their relationships.

 _Sherlock tosses out these little bombs into people lives, things that to him seem so painfully obvious but that wouldn’t have occurred to them for a moment until he says it and their universe comes crashing down. He’s proving he’s clever, but John’s also starting to realise that he thinks this is how to connect with people, how to show he’s paying attention to them. It’s half game, half misguided show of friendship_.

He’s getting better. It only takes a word from John to stop him from starting in on Harry, a masterful show of self-control given his seemingly boundless loathing of her. And when he gleefully displays such breathtaking cruelty to Molly that she’s reduced to tears before them, he sees it. For once, he actually sees what he’s done and offers without prodding a quietly sincere apology and a chaste kiss.

_John is so fiercely proud of him for that, for just an instant prouder than he’s ever been of Sherlock._

And then _she_ texts, once again interjecting herself into their lives at the worst possible moment. It wouldn’t be so bad if she hadn’t apparently broken into their flat and left a present for Sherlock, if John hadn’t decided to make an issue of it right then, if Sherlock hadn’t completely refused to discuss it with him. But mostly it wouldn’t be so bad if it all didn’t mean that she was dead.

John realises in retrospect that Sherlock must have known what was in the box before he opened it, known exactly what it meant. Both that she was about to be found dead, and that she wasn’t just yet. When John was chasing after Sherlock, harrying him about the number of texts and whether he replied or not, Irene Adler was out there in the world, dying.

He listens at the door as Sherlock tells Mycroft the news, hating himself for every word that’s just come out of his mouth. None of it matters now. 

“You okay?” he offers.

“Yes,” Sherlock tells him and John wonders if he knows that he’s lying. Either way, he shuts the door in John face and it doesn’t open again for a long time.

It’s nearly three a.m. when John hears Sherlock’s mobile ring through the wall of his bedroom. John can’t hear the conversation, but doesn’t need to. He can guess. Sherlock emerges moments later and sweeps past John in the hall as he grabs his coat and heads for the door.

“Sherlock? Was that… Is she…?”

“Yes.”

“My God. Hang on a tick, let me get my jacket…”

“Your presence is not required,” Sherlock says coldly and is gone before John can argue. John is left alone in the sitting room, feeling sick and useless. After a few minutes, Mrs. Hudson enters to check on him.

“Did Sherlock leave to…?” she asks tentatively and John nods. “Do you think we ought to…?

“Yes, I suppose we had,” John replies, with a heavy reluctance. Sherlock had asked this of him a few months ago, to save him from himself in times of great stress. He had informed John out of the blue that he had paid off all the local dealers to keep them from selling to him and that John should search his things when he thought Sherlock was in danger to prevent him from violating his own promise to John.

_He’s still not sure whether getting Mycroft involved was a good idea, but the elder Holmes did know Sherlock better than even John, and it’s not like he would have had any success preventing Mycroft’s interference had he attempted to._

Sherlock returns an hour later, just after John and Mrs. Hudson have completed their exhaustive search and Mycroft has finished warning him just how bad Sherlock really is tonight. Not that John hasn’t figured it out on his own, but having Mycroft confirm it makes his stomach twist with fear.

Sherlock shuts himself up in his room again immediately. John knocks once and receives no answer. He paces the kitchen, unsure of what he can do other than be awake and in the flat in case something happens.

How is he supposed to stay with him when Sherlock won’t let John near him?

When Christmas morning dawns, Sherlock is still locked away. John cancels on Harry and snags a few hours of sleep in his own room before going back downstairs to the deafening silence of the closed and impenetrable door. He sits in the kitchen, drinking cup after cup of coffee and futilely willing it to open.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two updates in two days? What kind of insanity is this? Just trying to make up for lost time on this thing. =)

What follows is one of the worst weeks of John Watson’s life, including those spent in combat. At least in combat you know what you’re supposed to be doing, and there’s always the chance that someone will kill you and get it over with.

Sherlock eventually comes out of his bedroom, but when he does it’s almost worse. John had hoped that a long sleep would have helped him, but it’s clear he’s not slept at all, although he’s got the glassy eyed look of a man sleepwalking. He ignores all casework or offers of it, leaving John to helplessly field increasingly panicked phone calls from Bryant.

He doesn’t respond to John or reply to any of his carefully innocuous questions. He won’t eat any of the meals John stubbornly cooks for him, doesn’t sleep, stares at the telly like he doesn’t see it – he constantly mumbles corrections at it, but they are half hearted and mechanical. He will drink tea that John makes, but sips it with an air of surprise, as if he can’t imagine where it came from or what on earth his body wants with it.

He’s a man in mourning, who doesn’t know how to mourn, and John doesn’t know how to teach him. Isn’t sure he wants to.

_How would he grieve for John, if it had been him instead of her? Would he be like this, lost, broken, verging on catatonic? Would he go into a vengeful, destructive rage? Would he even notice, or perhaps just miss the audience and the attention John provided, the functions John fulfils but not John himself?_

Such thoughts are unworthy of them both, John knows, but can’t quite help himself. He could never have imagined Sherlock to be capable of an emotional response of this level to the loss of another human being, and now that he’s seen it it’s even harder to imagine it lavished on himself. 

The hole left in Sherlock’s life by Irene Adler feels much more like one made by a lover than anything John can picture leaving, for all they’ve shared. It doesn’t help that John has been firmly banished to the very bedroom Sherlock once all but begged him to give up.

The music is the worst part, somehow. At first, when Sherlock picks up his violin again, John is thrilled. If he won’t talk, at least playing can let him express something, soothe him a bit. And he does play, for hours on end, a tune that is new to John yet somehow familiar, repeated over and over almost ceaselessly until Sherlock’s fingers grow numb and he is forced to stop, at least temporarily. By the third day the very notes of the song, whatever it is, are like nails on chalkboard to John.

_Whatever he’s writing, he’s never happy with it, constantly changing it just the tiniest bit each time through, although it remains the same melody at it’s core. It’s for her, of course, a requiem, and the thought only makes John dread the sound of it more._

John’s afraid to leave him alone in the flat in this state, and almost more afraid to find out that Sherlock wouldn’t notice at all if he’d gone.

On New Year’s Eve, Sherlock is still playing, still not eating, and John has realised he is about to hurtle past the breaking point if he doesn’t get out. There’s no one he can really talk to about these things – neither of them discuss their relationship with others - but he accepts an invitation from an old acquaintance, because if nothing else at least at a party he can at least get massively pissed without having to think about Sherlock.

On his way out he dares to ask to Sherlock about the song, about what he’s thinking, about anything at all. Sherlock shows the first flash of life he’s had in days, and of course it’s about her. He’s still trying to work out how to get into that damnable phone of hers. As it if still matters. As if it’s just a case and not a way to digitally resurrect her on some level.

_And despite his resentment he’s still grateful for anything that will bring out the old Sherlock again, even for a moment, even it’s only further proof of what John fears._

But even that lasts only a few seconds before Sherlock sinks back into himself and his playing, lost again.

John isn’t sure whether to be annoyed or glad when his New Year’s plans are hijacked by, for all appearances, Mycroft. Despite his worry, he’s not contacted the elder Holmes for advice. It would feel petulant and disloyal, and Sherlock wouldn’t thank him for it. But on some level, he’s glad that Mycroft has finally decided to insert himself into the situation, freeing him from having to decide to do it himself.

When a very-much-alive Irene Adler herself steps out of the shadows before him, fury and relief surge so powerfully within him that they almost cancel each other out.

“Tell him you’re alive,” John finds himself saying, before he can even can form a proper thought. There’s a note of pleading in his tone and he doesn’t care.

_He doesn’t want her to be alive, she can only cause more trouble, but she is and maybe if Sherlock knows it will be enough for him, maybe then he can forget about her, at least he won’t be able to make a shrine out of her in his mind._

She shakes her perfectly coiffed head at him. “He’ll come after me.”

“ _I’ll_ come after you if you don’t.” He’s surprised at the fierceness in his own voice, and more surprised that he means it.

_He’ll do anything for Sherlock, even if it means hunting down the object of his obsession and presenting her to him gift wrapped, with a bow in the middle of her forehead. The realisation strengthens his resolve and weakens his knees at the same time._

She explains what she did and why, but it doesn’t matter to him because he only cares about her in the context of what her existence means to Sherlock. Beyond that all he can feel is anger. He doesn’t know what’s more shocking, the fact that she spent months flirting at Sherlock or fact that, for all his rapt attention whenever she texted, he never replied to her in all that time.

“Does that make me special?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

_Not maybe, definitely. Sherlock has never reacted to another person like this, from the moment he saw her photograph he was transfixed. Whatever special means to him, she is it._

“Jealous?”

“We’re not a couple.”

He doesn’t know why he says it, they haven’t hidden it even if they don’t talk about it either. Maybe it’s because couple is not a word that he would ever use for what they have been, maybe it’s from an instinct to shield _them_ from her, or maybe it’s that it’s hard to feel like part of a couple when the other half barely acknowledges your existence.

“Yes, you are,” she dismisses, and he doesn’t have in it him to argue. She acquiesces then and texts Sherlock.

“For the record – if anyone out there still cares – I’m not actually gay,” he says a little too loudly to a little too much silence.

_Of course he’s not, never has been, though he’s not sure why he feels the need to assert it now, to misdirect and protect it from her. Sherlock is an outlier, the one man in a billion he could be with and it doesn’t even matter because if he was gay he’d not be ashamed of it, and he’s not ashamed of Sherlock as it is. But around her there’s a deep need in him to keep even a hint of what they have away from her at all costs. It’s the one thing he won’t allow to be sacrificed on the altar of Irene._

Not that she can’t see through all that, but to admit it out loud would feel like he’d lost to her.

“Well, I _am_ ,” she says simply. “Look at us both.”

It’s a moment of surprising vulnerability from her, and for just a second he wavers. She looks as sad and forlorn as he’s felt. He opens his mouth to say something to her, though he doesn’t know what yet, but is cut off by the garish sound of a text received that means Sherlock has followed him and heard every word they’ve just said.

           

After that week and that conversation, the horrible events that follow are almost a respite, although John hates that he thinks that way now. Mrs. Hudson is neither seriously hurt by the thuggish Americans looking for Ms. Adler’s phone nor as shaken as she pretends to be, and it gets Sherlock back in the game, back to life.

He says not a word to John about the week’s events, about Ms. Adler’s reappearance, about what they said in the warehouse, but that night he is the man John knows again. Viciously protective, cheerfully callous, brilliant and maddening all at once. John is grateful, even if he resents that the one he has to be grateful to is the one who caused it all in the first place. Sherlock still won’t talk about her, not even to acknowledge her existence, but he plays for John, Auld Lang Syne, and wishes him a happy new year, and John takes the crumb offered and tries to let it all go.

_Does any of it matter, really, so long as they are both back in 221B and there is music, and they are together?_

 

After that first night, John expects it to get better. It does get better, really it does. Sherlock starts sleeping and eating and working and speaking again. He does things other than play the same six mournful bars on the violin over and over and over. In fact, he snaps back to his normal – whatever you can call normal for Sherlock – self again.

He jokes with John again. They take cases. They eat together, drink together, watch telly together – everything as usual. Except. Except there is a space between them now that wasn’t there before. Sherlock has stopped shutting the door to his room, but issues no invitation, initiates no physical contact or affection, and responds coolly to any attempt on John’s part to do so himself. John continues to sleep upstairs and Sherlock doesn’t seek him out.

_Is this how it’s to be from now on? They just go back to how it was before, flatmates only, without discussion or fight or acknowledgement? And yet even before, the separation between them was never this yawning, never this final. There had always been the anticipation, the potential for closing the gap. Now it seems insurmountable._

In darker moments, he begins to wonder if it had even been real. It’s hard to believe that this man before him now had ever burned at his touch, had ever cried his name in ecstasy, had ever snuggled up to him as soft and trusting as a kitten. That they had whispered to each other about stars and galaxies, pledged their whole selves to one another, unconditionally, permanently. Because what John has now feels like anything but all of Sherlock.

_Can Sherlock even see him anymore? Is he still light and fire and brilliance in Sherlock’s brain, or has his flame gone out at last?_

John knows he should talk to Sherlock. He’s always been able to reach him before, no matter how closed off, no matter how distant, no matter the knots and convolutions required of the English language to achieve some level of discourse. But this time he doesn’t know how. He doesn’t understand what this woman has done to his friend, can’t process it in any way that makes sense for the man he knows. Thinks he knows. Whatever Sherlock has been through of late, he’s placed the experience so tightly under lock and key that the rest of him seems to have gone with it.

It can’t go on. It does go on. It goes on for a month. John hopes and prays Sherlock will pull out of it, that it’s just a matter of him needing time to recover from Irene’s death and resurrection, from whatever that meant to him. But nothing happens. John lets it continue far too long, even once he knows that if this new status quo is to change he’s going to have to be the one to knock it off balance.

_He’s afraid, is what it boils down too. This isolation is torture but at least he can pretend at times that everything is fine, that things are normal between them. But to investigate, to force the issue and perhaps discover incontrovertibly that he’s been replaced in Sherlock’s affections, that the man no longer wants him so completely… He’s not sure he could stand it. He hates his own cowardice, his dependence, his insecurity, but he hates the thought of knowing he might never touch or kiss or even really know his friend ever again far more._

Eventually, though, John can’t endure it any longer. Sherlock is standing by the window, playing his violin. The same six bars again, but now they sound like a love song instead of a dirge. John wants to rip the three-hundred year old instrument out of his hands and dash it against the wall. Instead, he positions himself directly in front of his friend and puts a hand on the strings, forcing Sherlock to stop playing.

“John!”

“I need to talk to you.”

“You can talk while I’m playing. You so often do.” The taller man goes to resume his music but John is unmoved.  Something in John’s expression alerts Sherlock to the gravity of the situation and he hesitates, then puts down the violin with a theatrical sigh. “Well?”

_Where does one start, when asking if the premise upon which one has built an entire life is flawed?_

John had planned to be honest, to ask what was going on between them, to speak his feelings and hope that Sherlock could understand. But instead, an entirely different question comes out of his mouth. One he didn’t even realise was in his mind until this very second.

“Sherlock… what do you see when you look at Irene Adler?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean… do you see anything like… like what you see when you look at me?”

Sherlock finally turns to meet John’s eyes and looks him up and down for a moment. “No.”

John supposes he should be relieved by this, but he’s not. “But there’s something though, isn’t there?”

Sherlock appears torn between answering honestly and not replying. At last he says, “Yes. Something.”

“Will you tell me what it is?”

A pause. “No.”

John turns to stalk away, defeated, but then stops. “Sherlock, at least tell me… do you love her?”

Sherlock turns his pale eyes on his friend in genuine surprise. “Don’t be vulgar, John.” He resumes his playing, variations on the same theme.

John feels sick.

_Sherlock doesn’t love her. John could handle it if he did. But he doesn’t love her, like he doesn’t love John or worse, like he’s never not-loved someone before. She’s too precious to bestow that common emotion on, too precious to share at all, even by talking about her, even by expressing what he thinks or feels about her in the most minor way._

John put his hands to his temples. “I’m going out,” he says quietly, wondering if Sherlock will even notice. He doesn’t. He’s absorbed in his playing, lost in a world that seems further from John than ever.

Yet just as John is about to step out the door, the baritone voice halts him.

“Yes?” he replies, turning back.

Sherlock puts down his violin and crosses the room faster than John would have thought humanly possible. Before he’s quite processed what’s happening, Sherlock has him up against the wall, holding John’s wrists above his head, corralling John’s hips with long legs, colonising John’s mouth with his tongue. John lets himself be overcome for a moment, pliant and accepting of Sherlock’s aggressive advances, soaking up his need and desire like a sponge that’s been dry too long.

Sherlock pulls away abruptly. “Sofa,” he orders, and harshly pushes John over and down on it, climbing astride him and tugging at his clothing impatiently.

_It feels so good, Sherlock’s warmth, his smell, his taste, his erection digging into John’s thigh. John’s been aching for weeks, going through a physical withdrawal and now Sherlock is all he can see and hear and feel and he wants to let himself be swept away completely._

But something is wrong. This isn’t making it up to him, this isn’t connection or affirmation. It’s brisk and businesslike and just a little bit cold.

John gathers his wits and tears his mouth away from Sherlock’s, stopping him dead. “Wait. What’s going on?”

“Sex, John,” Sherlock replies, irritated. “I had thought that was obvious.”

“Yes, but… why? Why now? It’s been… well, awhile.”

Sherlock cocks an eyebrow and John has evidently answered his own question. Assuming that should be enough for him, Sherlock goes to resume his conquest, shoving John back with two firm hands to his chest, but John resists.

“No,” he tells Sherlock, sitting back up and pushing Sherlock off him, finally. “You can’t just do this.”

“I think I’ve proven many times that I am indeed capable—”

“Shut up!” John snaps, even as he burns. “You can’t just… put me out in the cold like you have, for weeks. Shut me out of your bed, out of your thoughts, refuse to answer my questions, mope about over someone else and not explain any of it to me, and then just decide that suddenly, because you’re horny, I’m of interest again. It doesn’t work that way!”

_His body screams at him that it shouldn’t matter how it works, that once they are together once more it will all be right again, the release will fix everything._

Sherlock looks bewildered. “But I need–”

“I don’t really care what you need right now, Sherlock! Let’s talk about what I need. You remember that? Making me promise to tell you what I needed? Because you were _concerned_ about me. Well, what I _need_ is to know that I’m with someone who won’t refuse to tell me anything that’s going on in his head, someone who won’t treat me like a servant at best and a burden worst until he suddenly decides he could use a good fuck again. What were you going to do after this? Go back to your composing and your brooding and leave me to clean up and get out like a cheap whore?”

John jumps to his feet, all the anger and confusion he’s been repressing for weeks and months, since they met that damned woman, now finally boiling over.

“I thought you were _mine_ , John,” Sherlock shoots back, mockingly. “I thought you said you’d _always_ be mine, no matter what.”

John wants to punch the disdain off his face, but pulls himself together. “I am yours,” he tells Sherlock with far more calm than he feels. “But I’m a person, not your right hand. If you just need to get off, you can use that, not me.”

_Sherlock has never made him feel used before, not like this, not like he might as well be anyone, anything that can help Sherlock dispense with his bodily needs and get back to thinking about more important things . They’ve defiled each other in almost every way imaginable, but John’s never felt dirty until now._

Normally John would revel in the sight of Sherlock speechless, but now it’s a hollow victory. Sherlock is fairly quaking with rage and John hopes he’ll explode, that they can have it out now, for real, with words or fists or whatever they need to do to break down the wall that Sherlock’s put up between them.

But he doesn’t. Instead he throws himself down on the sofa, fiercely, facing away from John in his all-too-familiar sulking position. He’s ignoring John, hoping to make him beg his pardon, to clamour for his attention, for John to try to cajole him out of it. But John’s not playing.

He leaves the room without a word and goes upstairs. He gathers a few things and returns to the sitting room. He wants to bolt, to storm out, to disappear and let Sherlock chew on that for a little while. But they have an agreement and John’ll be buggered if Sherlock will get him to break his word now.

“I’m leaving,” he says, through gritted teeth. “I am going to Harry’s. I will come back.”

A slight tensing of Sherlock’s shoulder blades is the only sign that he’s heard, and John walks out the door without another look at him, slamming it behind him.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a nice long chapter, since I'm on rather a writing roll. I probably won't have another until after Thanksgiving, though!

John is more surprised than he ought to be to see Mycroft Holmes standing outside of his sister’s house the next morning. He rushes out before the man can try to enter. Harry and Mycroft would be an explosive combination and he’s not sure who would come out of it the worse.

“What are you doing here?” he demands. “How did you even know where I was? Sherlock tell you?”

Mycroft gives him a look of weary patience. “Sherlock didn’t tell me anything. Do I really need to explain to you how this works?”

John sighs. He doesn’t. He knows Mycroft keeps regular surveillance on their flat and on himself. He just prefers to not think about it as much as possible.

“Besides,” Mycroft adds. “It’s the one place Sherlock wouldn’t be likely to follow you to. It’s not a difficult deduction.”

_It’s true, he won’t. Sherlock hates Harry. Not in the way that he dislikes most people, truly hates her, refuses to be in her presence for any reason. If he could find a way to make her not exist without causing John pain, he would. It seems to be because she’s the only living human being with the power to summon John from Sherlock’s side at any time. John will always go to her if she really needs him, and Sherlock resents it. Or at least he had once. Did it matter at all to him any more?_

"Why are you here?"

“You should go home, John.”

“I will. When I’m ready.”

“You should go home _now_ , John.”

Fear rips instantly through John’s chest. “Did something happen? Is Sherlock—”

Mycroft shakes his head. “No, nothing like what I am sure you are imagining. But it’s not good for him when you’re gone.”

“Given his behaviour lately, I’m surprised he’s even noticed.”

“Jealousy is very unbecoming, John.”

“I’m not jealous,” John snaps. “I’m just tired of being shut out and treated like I’m not there. A few days of _not_ actually being there might do us both some good.”

“I highly doubt that.” Mycroft gives a heavy sigh and half sits on the wall of Harry’s front garden. “John. How much do you know about Sherlock’s life before you met him?”

“Why?”

“Humour me.”

John frowns. “We don’t discuss it much. Obviously I know about his time at Uni and Victor. I know there was some period of time after that when the drugs were too powerful for him and that it was pretty bad. And that he eventually got himself mostly clean, or at least in control, and began working as a detective. That’s about it.”

_They both have things they want to move beyond, that they don’t want to share or dwell on. It’s always been the present that mattered with them, and the future. Sherlock-and-John. What had happened in the past was better left there. They both liked to think that their lives as themselves started when they’d met._

Mycroft is silent for a long period. “Would it surprise you to know that the only period of Sherlock’s adult life in which he has been entirely free of chemical aid has been the past two months? After your serial killer case. And his use before that, after meeting you, was at a record low.”

John eyebrows go up. “He seemed to have it together when I met him. I mean there’s been times since when I worried about… but those were isolated incidents. And now he… doesn’t.”

Mycroft shakes his head. “He was on the edge before he met you. He was slipping, John, and I think he knew it. I suspect that’s why he suddenly decided to stop living alone. He was hoping the presence of another person would be enough of an obstacle to keep it from happening.”

“No, no, he was clean, at least temporarily, when we worked on that cabbie case, right when we met.”

_He had been, hadn’t he? He must have been. He was so sharp, so alive, John hadn’t been able to believe at the time that Sherlock would ever use drugs at all, much less that he was an addict. He’d seemed too strong to succumb to something like that, too in control of himself.  And even now, knowing all he did, it still seems preposterous that he’d ever let them get the upper hand._

“He was trying. But he was failing, slowly. I know his pattern, and it wouldn’t have been long before it was too much for him again.”

“Before what was too much?”

“Life. His mind and it’s unfortunate tendency to go to dark places. I believe that if he had succumbed fully again it would have been for the last time.”

John lets this sink in, trying not show how much the thought disturbs him. He’s almost afraid to ask, “What… what actually happened to him? Between University and when I met him?”

“That’s a long span of time, John. But what’s relevant for you… He began experimenting with substances in his last year of University. And when I say ‘experimenting’ I mean he took every mind altering drug he could procure and made rigorous notes on exactly what they did in various doses and combinations, factoring in side effects and relative levels of risk. He eventually figured out that his seven percent solution of cocaine served to relieve the pain he felt when he did not have suitable distractions, and various combinations of opiates could calm his mind when it was working beyond his control. But you know this.”

“Well, I knew the last part, yeah, but not so much before that.”

“I had assumed he would go for a doctorate in chemistry after university and he nearly did, but he’d gotten the detective idea in his head by then, and we had fallen out badly after Mummy… well, I suppose you must know all about that.”

_John doesn’t. Sherlock never talks about his mother, and the one time John had asked the flash of pain and helplessness on his friend’s face had been so extreme and frightening that he had never done so again._

Mycroft continues. “He insisted on doing things his own way, refused money or help, and without the structure of school or the support of family he was vulnerable. His manner put people off so he had a hard time getting private cases, and the police almost never believed him when he came with a solved case. He kept busy with experiments and writing papers and monographs about forensic techniques and related matters but it wasn’t enough for him. He started to rely more heavily on his chosen substances to maintain his sanity. And of course, he went too far.”

John closes his eyes and bites his lip. He feels guilty getting this from Mycroft but he’s not likely to hear it from Sherlock and the elder Holmes is right in that he really should know. “Too far how?”

“He fell into addiction, poverty, and…well, it would be indelicate to go into details but shall we say other risky personal behaviours? I tried to help him so many times, I had him hauled to the best rehab centres in Europe – he always escaped, of course – I tried to convince him to live at home again, promising him undisturbed use of a wing of the house.  I even appealed to the potential brain damage he was doing. But it was to no avail. It became a cycle. Every so often he would manage to pull himself out of it by sheer force of will, begin trying to work again, moderate his use to relatively safe levels. He might succeed for a year or even two, he would get some cases or a little recognition, but eventually something would happen, or nothing would happen, and he’d end up back there again, worse than before.”

_John finds hearing this, imagining Sherlock’s existence as Mycroft is describing it, to be physically painful. Thinking of Sherlock out of control, on the street, in withdrawal, in the thrall of something that was always just a step away from destroying his mind and body – it makes John feel ill, makes him want to throw himself between Sherlock and anything that might harm him, makes him want to kill something to protect him, even though there’s nothing now that could change any of it._

“So, what, I just happened to meet him in a good year?”

“Not quite. About six years ago he was hauled in to jail for disorderly conduct and drug possession by a newly minted Detective Inspector.”

“Greg.”

“Indeed. He seemed to be able to see that my brother was not an ordinary junkie and to have some compassion for him. I thought perhaps we could come to a beneficial relationship.”

“You got him to clear the charges?”

Mycroft chuckles. “Oh, the charges would have been cleared whether our friend wanted them to be or not. No, I showed him what Sherlock could do for him. It didn’t take much nudging. He was eager to make a name for himself. I only asked that he keep Sherlock…busy. And out of trouble as far as he was capable. The arrangement worked better than I had hoped. Lestrade had real need of Sherlock, and Sherlock listened to him more than to me, because Lestrade had something he actually wanted.”

_It’s true, Sherlock respects Lestrade in a perverse way that John’s never been able to figure out. Not quite like a father or a mentor, more like an older brother. Maybe the brother he wishes Mycroft was._

“You have a rather sick kind of genius,” John tells him. “It must run in the family.”

Mycroft inclines his head.

“So if it worked, and was still working when I met him, what is all this business about him slipping again? He was doing what he wanted to do all along, had done for more than five years.”

“I’m not certain, to be honest,” Mycroft said. “My primary theory is that his success allowed him to isolate himself even further. He came into his trust fund so money was no object, the Yard needed him more than he needed them so he didn’t have to interact more than he wanted to. He was living once again more and more inside his head, with no one and no reason to take him out of it. Sherlock’s head can be an agonising place to be, particularly without respite…”

“So once again, the drugs got more and more appealing,” John finishes.

“And more necessary, to his mind. He was smart enough to know it was happening and try to stop it, but he didn’t understand why or how to reverse it. And if even work couldn’t keep him sane…well, there was nothing else for him to try.”

John lets out a long breath. "So, you think if I ever left him..."

_Leave Sherlock. Could he? Would he? What level of cruelty on Sherlock’s part would be required to drive John well and truly away? Did such a point even exist?_

“I don’t know what would happen if you left him, but I assume you don’t wish to find out any more than I do. He needs you John, even when he thinks he doesn’t. You do something for him that cases and cocaine and money and even a suitable audience can’t. You keep him _here_. Go home, John.”

John closes his eyes, furious at both Holmes brothers for putting him in this position, and even more furious at Mycroft for being right. “All right. But I’m not doing it for you.”

“That thought would never occur to me,” Mycroft says, standing and twirling his umbrella smugly. “Would you like a lift?”

“No, I think I can handle it on my own,” John grumbles. Mycroft turns to walk away but a thought a strikes John and he calls after him. “Mycroft. You have my sister watched, don’t you?”

Mycroft turns back to him with the faintest of smiles. “Well done. Apparently Sherlock is good for you as well. Yes. As the only immediate family of my brother’s intimate partner—”

“Mycroft, please!” John fairly shouts at him. “Really!”

“Well, do you have a term you prefer I employ? It seems an apt description.”

John has nothing to say to that and Mycroft continues, “As the only immediately family of my brother’s very dear…friend… Harriet merits attention. You may rest assured that I will alert you if there is any crisis you should be aware of.”

 _John and Mycroft are not so very different after all. They both know what it is like to have to look after a sibling, even if Harry is three years older than John. What it is like to love someone who won’t let you help them, as you watch them skip down the path to destruction, giving you two fingers all the way_.

“Thank you,” John says, meaning it, strangely warmed by the gesture, the significance that Mycroft has accepted him as family, accepted partial responsibility for his sister. John has been trying to keep her together on his own for twenty years, and to have someone share the burden, even marginally, is a relief he can’t express. Perhaps that’s how Mycroft feels about John.

           

 

Sherlock is in roughly the same position John left him in – curled on the sofa, facing the cushions. The only hint that he’s moved at all is that he’s wearing a different dressing gown and different pyjama bottoms. John still feels furious when he looks at him, but isn’t entirely unmoved by the small figure he makes.  

Sherlock doesn’t look up when he enters, and gives no sign of having noticed John’s presence. John takes off his jacket and slowly makes his way over to the sofa, kneeling at Sherlock’s head but not touching him.

“Sherlock…” he begins.

“What did Mycroft tell you?” Sherlock snaps, still not turning toward him. John doesn’t ask how he knows; in addition to keenly honed deductive skills the brothers seem uncannily able to read each other’s minds.

John chooses his words carefully. “He told me what it was like for you before I knew you.”

“Like he knows!”

“I just want to hear from you whether it’s true or not.”

“So that’s why you came back? My brother told you a tale of woe so you would feel guilt and pity and run home?”

John swallows his rising rage at that. “I told you where I was going and that I wasn’t leaving forever. You knew I was going to come back. Don’t act like you believe I don’t want to be here.” He puts a hand gingerly on Sherlock’s shoulder. “I don’t want to have to hear things from Mycroft. I want to hear from you.”

_Anything, anything at all that will confirm that John is more than just a stranger, more then just someone to share the rent or to give medical expertise. Any sign that John is still considered worthy of confidence, even in the most meagre way._

Sherlock lets out a deep sigh and rolls over to face John. “Fine. What do you want to hear?” His voice is a challenge. John must tread very lightly.

“He told me about your…history… with the drugs before I met you. And he said… he said that you were losing control again and that he thought if you did you would never get it back. That’s not true, is it?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Of course it’s true. Mycroft’s lies are much more inventive than that. I was on a course to be sectioned or dead within six months. A year, maximum.”

John gasps and goes to touch his face but Sherlock shrugs him off, harshly. “I’m uninterested in your pity, John. And none of this is relevant to the problem you seemed to have been having yesterday.”

John closes his eyes. “I didn’t handle that well. I should have said something sooner. I just… I want to understand you. Your past. Whatever is going on with Irene Adler. Why you don’t want… haven’t wanted… what we had before. I need to know what you want from me. From us.”

Sherlock looks confused. “Why do you keep bringing up Ms. Adler?”

John laughs bitterly. “Because she’s all you can think about. Because she died and you took it harder than I’ve ever seen you take anything, and now she’s alive and you’re basking in it.”

“Even if that were to be true, what does that have to do with you and I?”

“Everything!” John exclaims, frustrated. “Everything when it means that you’ve stopped acting like there _is_ a you and I. When it pushes all thought of me out of your head. When you don’t seem to be mine any more, or care if I’m yours. Or care about anything at all but her!”

_It sounds so lame, so needy coming out of his mouth. He hates it. But when you’ve spent a year making someone the centre of your universe, having that suddenly ripped away with no explanation does something to a man._

Sherlock looks stricken and slowly sits up, as if dazed. “Have I been doing that?” he murmurs, half to himself. “I’ve been so distracted…”

“I know. And if you want… if she’s what you want… I’m not going to… I want you to be happy, I just need… I need to know.”

Sherlock looks at John as if he’s just casually mentioned that he’s planning on starting a second career as a circus clown. “ _Want_ her? Is _that_ what you’ve thought? Don’t be a complete moron, John.”

John feels hope tentatively take root in his chest. “Well, it did seem that way. And there is something between you. You can’t deny it. Maybe if you could tell me…”

“I can’t tell you,” Sherlock insists and John can see that it’s true. “But I promise you it’s not… it’s nothing to do with you. Us.”

John lets out a long breath, a breath he’s been holding since Christmas. He shifts so he’s kneeling between Sherlock’s legs and put his hands on the bony thighs. Sherlock bends down until his forehead brushes John’s.

_He’d truly thought he’d never share another moment of intimacy with Sherlock ever again, even something so simple as this. He’s too relieved to be embarrassed by the strength of his feelings right now._

“Your past,” John whispers, and Sherlock stiffens but stays quiet. “My past. I think we should talk about them. Sometimes. A little. I think pretending our pasts don’t exist isn’t safe for us… it’s dangerous. It’s how we hurt each other. I know you can’t always tell me things, that you don’t know how. And I don’t always want you know what’s going through my head either. But we have to…try. As much as we might hate to admit it, what came before still effects us both.”

Sherlock nods in reluctant agreement.

“The drugs…”

“Done with.”

John accepts that. “God, you’re an inconsiderate prig,” he says, reaching up to smooth back Sherlock’s unruly forelock. “A massive git.”

Sherlock swallows and John can feel the tension in his whole body. “May we please have sex now?”

The question is so utterly _Sherlock_ that it dispels John’s resentment and fear and he nods, chuckling, and slides his hands up Sherlock’s legs to his hips, pressing in closer to him. Sherlock makes a low sound of pleasure and pulls John up on to the sofa so that John is kneeling across his lap. He grabs the back of John’s neck with both hands and pulls John’s mouth down to his, and every word of the apology he’ll never give is contained in that kiss, in his hands, strong and sure, running up and down John’s back.

“What do I look like?” John asks, pulling back for just a moment. “Can you still see?”

“Of course I can,” Sherlock chides.

“Then what?”           

“A full moon on a starless night. Obviously.”

John feels the last remnants of doubt leave him, replaced by a physical hunger, a need to feel his friend both inside and out that is so deep it is almost frightening, as if he will actually die without it.

_He’d convinced himself it wasn’t the sex, it was the lack of emotional closeness that had been getting to him, but now he realises there’s no difference. With Sherlock, sex is emotional closeness, not just a sign of it or a way to shore it up, but an actual exchange of thoughts and feeling that he will never even be able to approach through any other means. It’s the ultimate signifier of trust and care and need for another, and the only way he can tell John even a fraction of what he thinks about them._

John somehow manages to get Sherlock on his back beneath him without ever breaking contact with Sherlock’s mouth. They press against each other as tightly as possible, trying to banish any hint of distance between them, to communicate solely by skin touching skin. John’s hands roam over Sherlock’s arms and chest as he rubs the side of his face against Sherlock’s stomach, wanting to feel every single part of Sherlock’s body on every single part of his own body, preferable all at once.

He entwines his fingers in Sherlock’s, pulling the arm back over Sherlock's head while he runs his lips down the inside of it, starting at Sherlock’s wrist and ending with his face buried in Sherlock’s armpit, inhaling the deep, pleasant musk that makes his stomach clench with desire.

_As a man who is straight in every way except who he actually shares his bed with, as an inveterate admirer of women and all things feminine, John never ceases to find it strange that with Sherlock he is invariably attracted to the parts of him that are most masculine. His broad shoulders. His well-muscled back. His tallness. The coarse and curling hairs between his legs that hold his warm, earthy scent – like mushrooms and deep wells and the heavy woodiness of a temperate rainforest – which to John has become the epitome and essence of Sherlock in a single sense._

He moves down Sherlock’s side, dragging his teeth from Sherlock’s ribcage to his waist, nipping a little at tender skin and watching it pucker into gooseflesh and then go smooth again. He makes to continue lower, then stops suddenly and raises himself up on elbows to look Sherlock in the face.

“Don’t ever do that again,” John says.

Sherlock’s grey eyes fly open, jarred out of the moment. He’s humming beneath John, breathing raggedly and rutting up against him, undulating, anticipating. He says nothing, animalistic and hungry and out of his head now.

“I’m serious. I don’t care what happens or why, don’t ever shut me out like that again.”

Sherlock makes a frustrated sound and pushes up against John, but John takes his shoulders and presses him back down to the sofa, hard enough to leave a mark, refusing to give him any satisfaction until he listens.

“John, I can’t… you know I can’t….” Sherlock breathes at last, with difficultly.

“I don’t care.” John’s voice is stern and his arms are immovable. “Find a way. I don’t care how you do it or how hard it is, find a way to let me in. Do you understand?”

Sherlock struggles against him for another moment, trying to bring John back down to him, to wrap his long legs around him and pull them back together but John is too strong for him. Suddenly, Sherlock goes limp, face relaxing into submission.

“Yes, John,” he says meekly.

“Promise me.”

“I promise, John.”

John searches Sherlock’s face but all he finds there is surrender and honesty, rare enough to see on his friend but genuine. John dips his head and plants a bruising kiss on Sherlock’s lips, then releases him. Sherlock instantly pulls John back to him, his hands working nothing short of magic between John’s legs as he strives to climb inside of John’s mouth, and John allows himself to slowly melt into Sherlock, giving into the orgy of sensation, letting his brain, at last, stop spinning.

           

Some time later, exhausted, John collapses panting and sweat-slicked onto Sherlock’s chest, sky blue silk and creamy skin soft and sticky against his cheek. Sherlock gives a shudder of a sigh under him, all satisfaction and release of anxiety, as always most at peace when John is most in contact with him. John feels empty in the most delightful of ways, now devoid of tension and fear and anger, just a memory of recent pleasure, a husk of impossible lightness resting upon the object of his deepest happiness.

John doesn’t know how long they lie there, but at last Sherlock stirs and then just as abruptly aborts the movement, returning again to perfect stillness but now with a tense undercurrent humming against John’s body.

“What is it?” John asks, lifting his head to look at him.

Sherlock hesitates. “You meant it? When you said we should talk about things?”

John nods slowly.

“Afghanistan. Your wound.”

John lets out a long breath and closes his eyes.

_Of course Sherlock wants to know. He’s amazed the man has let it go this long, but then Sherlock doesn’t like to think about what might have been. Or not been. He doesn’t either. But there’s no avoiding it now and maybe that’s a good thing._

Keeping his eyes screwed firmly shut he lets his mind drift back to a place and time he’s spent two years trying to leave, until he’s no longer in 221B Baker Street, no longer feeling the steady heartbeat of his lover beneath him or smelling the moist and pungent aftermath of their sex surround them like a cocoon.

            _Hot sun, heavy gear, dry mouth, mile after mile of dusty terrain, hope fading, pressing on anyway…_

He clears his throat and begins, and it feels like his voice is coming from someone else, somewhere else. “It was a rescue mission. Two men from my platoon had gone missing on a routine patrol. We split up. We shouldn’t have but we were getting desperate, so we spread out to cover more ground. I climbed over a steep ridge, following a game trail down into another little valley, hoping to find any sign of them.”

            _A hut, ruined and gutted, the smell of  smoke, of burning, burning flesh, maimed figures strung up on a pole, tatters of clothing, British army uniforms, fluttering in the breeze like the tail of a kite, gorge rising, reaching for a weapon…_

“I didn’t even have time to really absorb what had happened, I barely had time to react at all when I heard a loud sound followed by a searing pain in my left shoulder, the worst thing I’d ever felt. Then everything went dark.”

_Slowly coming to, pain everywhere, in his shoulder, in his head, so thirsty, everything fuzzy, everything muffled, sun in his eyes, a brown face peering down at him, wiry fingers pulling at his sidearm, danger, enemy, attack…_

“My instincts kicked in then, I managed to wrestle my gun out of his hands and fire. I couldn’t lift my head to see, but I knew I’d got him, I heard the sound of a body hitting the ground nearby.”

            _Blinking, only half aware, trying to clear his mind, what had happened, wet warmth, blood pooling beneath body armour that failed to stop a bullet, redness, hotness, stillness, turning to look at his shoulder and seeing…_

“There was a figure next to me, blurry but real. The man I’d shot.” John barks a bitter laugh. “Man. Boy, barely. Thirteen years old, max. He was badly wounded.”

            _Supine, small, black haired, crimson blooming from his right thigh, blood soaking soil, eyes darting, mouth moving, lips pleading silently, not getting up…_

“I tried to stand. I was in shock. At the time I didn’t understand how this child came to be lying next to me, mortally wounded. I didn’t understand how I’d come to be there either, only that I was supposed to help hurt people, help him, if only I could reach my bag.”

            _His doctor’s bag, tourniquet, morphine, antibiotics, needles and thread to put the child back together again, staunch the flow, cure the sickness, stop the death that was stalking them both…_

“I couldn’t move. I tried to talk to him in what little Pashto I had, tried to reassure him but I could barely whisper and I don’t think he would have found anything I had to say comforting.”

_Tan round face, doe-like eyes with feathered lashes blinking incomprehension and hate at him, each blink laboured, each slower than the last…_

“I was watching him slip away, I could feel it, and I could feel myself slipping away too.”

_Flesh cooking, steaming in his gear, his wound clotting and putrefying under his very nose, liquefying, rotting away, being absorbed into this place that has already left so many marks on him that he could never truly leave, closing his eyes and praying for an end for himself, for the boy…_

“And then what happened?” Sherlock’s bass cuts through his reverie and John realises how very far away he’d been, that he’s clutching the fabric of the sofa too tightly, that his elbow is digging hard into Sherlock’s side and that every muscle in his body is contracted.

John consciously pulls himself out of his memory, forcing his body to let go, putting his head back down on Sherlock’s chest if only to avoid meeting those wide, curious, clueless eyes. He takes a deep breath. “Then we died.”

He feels Sherlock cock his head, and continues.

“The boy, he died first. His eyes were open and flies came and laid on them. His tongue lolled out, it was almost black with thirst and swollen. I asked later if they’d taken him to his mother at least, and the sergeant laughed and said he was with her, alright.” John swallows. “Then it was my turn, I could feel it starting at my feet, going up my knees, to my intestines and kidneys and liver, all shutting down, one by one. I felt dizzy and then it was dark. It was nice. It was cool. I was alone. I was so glad.”

“But… You’re alive, John…” Sherlock informs him, struggling. “You survived, clearly…”

John shakes his head. “No one could have survived that, Sherlock. A man with my name woke up three weeks later in Germany. But me… no.”

Sherlock is silent for a long time and John waits patiently, relieved for a break from talking and hoping his friend won’t require further explanation.

“I see,” Sherlock says quietly, at last, and John can tell from the tightening of fingers on his shoulder, almost painful, that Sherlock does. At least as much as anyone can.

John clears his throat. “Anyway, I was someone else for a while after that – I’ve never been really sure who, I was barely a person then, maybe just a shadow – and then I died again and now I’m me.”

A pause. “What happened the second time?”

This time John smiles into his friend’s chest. “Nothing quite so dramatic. I left  my life in an Italian restaurant to run after a madman who thought he was a detective.”

Sherlock snorts with an ironic edge, then frowns deeply. “I don’t like that,” he tells John firmly. “There were too many variables. What if something had gone wrong? There wasn’t one chance in a million that everything would work out perfectly to bring you back to the correct place and time that would result in us being here now. It’s unacceptable.”

_He’s not surprised that Sherlock offers no expressions of sympathy, pity, or even horror for the experiences he’s just described. That the detective is only concerned without how it might have altered his own existence with John, not considering a near-fatal injury itself to be something that had gone wrong, but rather a most vital incident of the upmost necessity for Sherlock’s current benefit. John should be furious at the selfishness required to think this way, at the disregard for life lost, but instead he finds it almost disarming for something so tragic and horrible that so long defined him and ruled his life to be stripped bare and rendered down to the simple fact that it resulted in John Watson and Sherlock Holmes belonging to each other. If there can be any goodness or redemption out of such vileness, this is it._

John shrugs. “Name one occurrence in life that doesn’t require such a particular and delicate set of circumstances to bring it about that it seems impossible that it happens at all. Everything is vanishingly improbable, when you think about it. It happened. I’m me, you’re you, and we’re here. Leave it.”

Sherlock nods curtly, respecting John’s logic, but John can feel him still rolling the information John’s just given him around in his brain, like rocks in a tumbler that won’t stop until all the rough edges are gone, until the ideas are smooth and shiny and fit in his mind perfectly.

John stays still, allows Sherlock the time and silence to work all this into his conception of John Watson as a person even as John himself tries to let it fade again, to herd it back into the corner of his mind, cordoned with barbed wire and landmines, that he’s ceded to the memories he’s never learned how to delete. Unfortunately, Sherlock’s not done with him yet.

“John?” The voice is careful, tentative now.

“Yes?”

“May I ask you one more question?

_Politeness like this, from Sherlock, is always worrying._

John nods. “Of course.”

“Back at the warehouse. I heard you tell Ms. Adler that we were not… that you weren’t…” Sherlock looks uncomfortable and doesn’t finish the sentence.

John’s gut twists with guilt. He’d forgotten, in all the commotion, what he’d said, what Sherlock would have heard him say.

“Sherlock…” he begins and goes to kiss the bow of a mouth in apology, but Sherlock turns his head just a hair and John stops.

“Why did you say what you said?” Sherlock’s voice is not exactly accusatory, not exactly wounded; uncomprehending, maybe, trying to hide that he cares enough to be bothered. He blinks up at John, inscrutable, waiting.

John runs a hand through his hair. “I didn’t mean…” He sighs heavily, embarrassed now. “It wasn’t what it sounded like. It’s just that… what we are. What we have. It’s so… so very, very important. It’s… precious and…and intimate. Just the fact of it. I hate sharing it, sometimes. I don’t want to let too many people in on it. I want it to be for just us, as much as it can be. And when it comes to Ms. Adler… Well, I just have this to urge to protect it… protect us, from her. I don’t want her to see or know or think she knows. I want to keep us as small and safe and tucked away from her as I possibly can, so there’s one thing she can’t pollute.”

_Of course she already has, and maybe it’s as much his fault as anyone’s. Well, not as much as hers, obviously, but his obsession with Sherlock’s obsession certainly had only made it all worse._

“It was stupid, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I was trying to... I don't know. It came out all wrong.”

Sherlock nods, still unreadable. After a moment he says calmly. “Yes, John it was stupid. As are nearly all romantic gestures. I suppose it’s a flaw of yours I’ll have to live with.”

John hides his relieved smile by putting his head once more to the smooth chest, trying to regain his emotional equilibrium once more. He focuses on the steady sound of Sherlock’s breathing, on the unconscious fidgeting of his hands, on the dwindling daylight coming through the window. He is so intent on his meditations that he starts when Sherlock at last speaks again.

“Sorry, what was that?” John asks, pushing himself up to a sitting  position and shaking his head to clear it.

Sherlock props himself up as well and peers at John over steepled fingers. “I said, it’s not light; it’s sound.” He’s watching John sharply for a reaction, like a predator, like a scientist, like a child who’s just confessed a misdeed all rolled into one.

“I don’t… _Irene_?”

Sherlock nods, still searching John’s face. John keeps carefully impassive, pushing down the maelstrom of thoughts and feelings the mention of the woman brings.

“When she speaks, or I read her words I hear… a melody.”

John’s stomach drops. “The music you’ve been playing…” he says weakly, feeling almost as if he’s been shot again.

“I thought if I could I understand the music, I could know what it means. But it doesn’t seem to matter how I play it, or how much, it makes less sense every time. What does it mean, John?”

Sherlock’s face is so collected he might well be talking about the weather, but his clear eyes are blown wider than they should be and his voice quavers just enough to let John know that he finds this mystery, of all things, frightening.

“I… I don’t know,” John says, treading on eggshells to not betray his own unsettlement. He finds refuge in the clinical. “These sorts of disorders, synaesthesia, it can be progressive. It shouldn’t be surprising that you’ve developed additional symptoms.”

_But why her, why this woman and only her, only her and John? Why does she get to be the song that’s stuck in Sherlock’s head, the name that burns itself into his retinas? How much longer is it before her music drowns out everything else?_

“In fact, given the traumatic circumstances of our first meeting with her, it shouldn’t really be surprising that she would be connected with a new manifestation of the injury.” John’s voice is confident and professional and calm, everything he doesn’t feel right now.

Sherlock’s nod is deferential, and he gives John a faint smile that doesn’t touch his eyes but that he must at least be given credit for on the basis of his recognition that John may wish some reassurance at this time.

_Sherlock heard the music from the first moment she opened her mouth, nude and defiant and in control of everything around her. John’s certain of this, and just as certain that he must, for both their sanities, never let this deduction be spoken._

Instead, John forces a smile and grabs Sherlock’s hand, squeezing it a little too tightly. “Thank you…for telling me,” he says, and watches the sliver of trepidation in the corner of Sherlock’s eyes dissolve. He leans down and brushes Sherlock’s lips with his own, affectionate but not passionate, not quite able to push aside Sherlock’s revelation with the ease he feigns.  He fumbles for normalcy. “I think I’m going to hop in the shower.”

“Yes, John, you are rather ripe,” drawls Sherlock with a wry grin. “We certainly can’t have you going to the ball in this state.”

John smacks him on the shoulder. “Conceited arsehole—Wait, what ball?!”


	8. Chapter 8

John squints at himself in the mirror and frowns. “Strawberry? Really?”

“It’s the shade most compatible with your skin tone.”

“And you’re sure it will wash out?”

“Of course. Eventually… Now, hurry up and get dressed. Clothes hanging on your cupboard!”

Sherlock vanishes to do whatever he needs to do to get ready. John trudges up the steps to his room, shaking his head. He’s not sure at exactly what point in the day he’d agreed to dye his hair and go undercover at the Ginger Society’s annual gala, but it appears that he has. He’s only moderately surprised to find a complete set of white-tie attire waiting for him in his room.

_It fits like a glove. Of course it does. To say Sherlock knows his measurements would be a severe understatement. He must have had them custom made at his tailor for John – they clearly aren’t hired. He’s not sure whether to be annoyed at how long Sherlock planned this without mentioning it, or appreciative of the care he’s taken._

“Not bad,” Sherlock says, appearing behind him without a sound. He looks John up and down, and straightens his collar. “Yes, yes this will do nicely.”

“Glad you approve,” John mumbles dryly. “Why do you look like a kitchen porter?”

“Because no one would ever believe me to be a ginger, John. Besides, things are always much more interesting down with the help.”

They take a car to the Corinthia and Sherlock has the driver pull around back of the sprawling hotel so he can go in through the kitchens. He hands John an envelope.

"Letters of introduction. You're John Walter Colby, nephew of Lord Colby, a distinguished and deceased member of the Society. A legacy, invited to attend the ball because you might be interested making yourself - and your enormous inheritance - a part of their little club."

"And what exactly am I supposed to do once I'm there? Mingle? Because I really feel like these are not exactly my kind of people."

Sherlock shakes his head. "The current treasurer of the Society is a woman who goes by the name Lady Sienna Forsythe, though of course that is false. She'll be the owner of those hairs you found at Bryant's house. Find her. I suspect that will be easy, by all accounts she's a difficult woman to miss. Make...friends... with her."

"Friends? You're saying you want me to chat her up."

_Of course Sherlock did, this was his go-to move when there was a female involved. At least a female who wasn't Irene Adler. John knows he's a reliable flirt but Sherlock assuming he’s up for it at all time is starting to get old._

"Yes. You're good with that sort of thing, relatively attractive, non-threatening..."

"Don't go overboard with the compliments or anything," John mutters. "All right. Chat her up. For any particular purpose?"

"She won't be likely to tell you anything unless she thinks you're one of her people. When you introduce yourself, tell her your friends call you Gilly. When she says that Gilly isn't a very good nickname, reply that they aren't very good friends."

"Jesus, we're into secret codes now, are we?"

"She'll think you've been sent to work with her. Play it carefully and she might tell you something useful without you having to actually know anything. Charm her, keep her distracted, and do your best to separate her from her personal effects. I'll do the rest. If she starts acting suspicious, get out."

"How exactly do you expect me to distract her?" John demands.

_Sherlock's confidence in him is appreciated, but having never laid eyes on the woman in question he hardly shares it. Besides, distract can mean a lot of things._

"You'll think of something." Sherlock gives him a salacious wink and one of his irresistible grins, and gets out of the car.

"Are you actually allergic to giving me more than two minutes notice for anything?" John shouts after him, futilely, as the door slams.

The car drives around front to let him off at the ballroom entrance. It is exactly as unbearably posh an event as he had feared. John's hoping to slip in unnoticed, but upon the announcement of his name he's immediately surrounded by distinguished-looking older gentlemen who are clearly courting him for his supposed fortune. He responds with the necessary pleasantries, but it seems ages before he can escape the awkward conversation and get a good look around on his own.

There must be over 500 people in attendance, every last one of them with some shade of red hair, from deep auburn to the lightest pink-tinged blonde.  Apparently bringing non-ginger dates is verboten. Even most of the service staff is redheaded. John feels very sharply out of place, despite his dye job, and wonders if people can tell just by looking at him that he's not a ginger on the inside.

_He never does quite fit in, but he's an expert in seeming like he does. This should be no different._

"Pull yourself together, Watson," he mutters, shaking it off. Letting a ballroom full of people who share some recessive genes make him feel inferior is just too much. He turns his soldier's eye to the room and scans it for signs of his target. She's easy enough to spot; a head taller than most of the other women and more than a few of the men, wearing a stunning cobalt gown which highlights a figure that can only be described as impressive. Her coppery hair is twisted into a high bun and then left to cascade halfway down her back.

He's sure it's her immediately, though he asks a bystander just to be sure. She's standing by the refreshments table and, miraculously, not speaking to anyone at the moment. John approaches, pretending to be interested in the cheese board, and lets his instincts take over.

_He can't pretend that, even without Sherlock's instructions, she isn't exactly the kind of woman he would have gone straight for. A challenge, someone so clearly out of his league in every way that to succeed with her would be heady indeed. He's managed it often enough it shouldn't surprise him anymore, but the thrill never goes away._

"Bloody Camembert," he mutters. "I don't suppose anyone in the history of fancy parties has ever eaten the Camembert, yet here it is every time. I'm starting to think that there's just one wheel of it in the world that goes from party to party, getting less and less appealing as it goes."

The woman next to him chuckles softly and he pretends to notice her for the first time. "Sorry, I didn't actually realise I was talking there. I do that when I get nervous at parties."

"Not at all," she says graciously. 

Before she can quite turn back to whatever it was she was looking at John says quickly, "I don't suppose you'd be interested in a dance, would you?"

She looks him over appraisingly. He knows that look. It's the "you don't seem like much but you have guts" look.

"No, I don't suppose I would be," she answers firmly, but her tone remains cordial.

_She's left him an opening, and she doesn't even know it. Her body language says try again._

"Good, because I am a rubbish dancer," he tells her cheekily, and gets a louder laugh for his pains. He's got her attention for a little while at least. "You're Lady Forsythe aren't you? Society treasurer or something?"

"Or something. Sienna, please." She extends her hand and he kisses it.

"John Colby. But my friends call me Gilly."

She withdraws her hand and looks at him sharply, arching a well-sculpted eyebrow. "Gilly isn't a very good nickname," she replies through gritted teeth.

"They aren't very good friends," he answers dutifully. A flush of what seems to be anger is spreading across her pale skin, starting at her more than ample bosom and running up her neck until it reaches her dimpled cheeks.

_Well, it's had an effect. The question is, what kind of an effect and can he navigate it without outing himself instantly?_

"Tonight? Here and now? How dare they--" she begins in a furious whisper that threatens to rise and John cuts her off.

"There are about three important-looking people who seem like they are about to come talk to you. Unless you want to explain what you're so angry about on such a lovely evening, or who I am, you should take my arm like you're smitten and find a private corner to discuss this."

Her nostrils flare, but she does take his arm, sidling up to him and giving a throaty laugh out of nowhere which is uncannily believable. They stroll out of the main ballroom and the instant they are out of sight of most of the guests, she drops the pleasant expression and moves to extricate her arm.

"Not yet," John tells her quietly. "People are still watching."

She bridles at being told what to do but keeps silent. He leads them down several hallways, having no idea what he's doing, until he sees a sign with an arrow marked "Conservatory". Perfect. When they get there it's marked closed, which is even better. No sooner than they are through the doors into the humid, hot air than she wrenches her arm away and turns on him.

_She is glorious, completely and totally. She's an Amazon in a ball gown and he has no trouble believing at all that she could be running any number of underground activities while posing convincingly as anything from a model to the queen of Spain._

"Why did they send you?" she hisses, dropping her wrap and clutch on a bench beside them as if she's getting her hands free for a fight. "Why now? I've been working on this for months, someone like you can only screw it up at this point. My people are in place, I just have to wait for the right day. You can't rush something like this. Or is it _him_? Is he the one that doesn't trust me? I can hardly win the trust of a man I've never been allowed to meet!"

John holds up his hands defensively, in an attempt to placate her. "Are you sure you're not actually a red-head? Calm down. I'm just here to check in with you and make sure things are going smoothly. That's it. There's no problem, no one thinks you aren't handling it well. It's just a very valuable... job. They want to make sure you have what you need."

"What I need is to be left alone," she snaps. "Every time they make contact like this they put me - and the job - at risk."

"I know," John agrees. "I told them that. But you know how they are."

_Surprisingly, this strategy seems to be working. As long as she doesn't ask him to be specific and seems content to let their presumed mutual employer go unnamed, commiseration seems to be the key._

She nods shortly in agreement. "And him? What's his part in this?"

"Uh, that's a little above my pay grade," John fumbles for a second.

_Him. Him is different than them, maybe is in charge of them. That’ll be important._

"I'm just the messenger boy. I'm of significantly less importance than you are."

"You're bloody well right you are!" she yells, then modulates her tone to a clipped, controlled one.  “You can tell _them_ what I told them last time. Shipments come irregularly, no more than eight weeks apart but even with clearance I only get notice 24 hours in advance. It happens when it happens and I'll have it no later than mid-March. Out my hands."

"I'll tell them," John assures her. "Again."

She still looks royally pissed off, but she's starting to calm down.

"Look, I'm sorry I spoiled your evening. I was hoping to avoid that," John offers. "Maybe I can make it up to you?"

"You're not like the ones they usually send," she says, looking at him suspiciously. "You're...nice."

He shrugs. "Even nice guys end up in bad business. Besides. I'm not nice all the time." He grins rakishly and offers her his arm once more. "Care for a stroll? It's rather romantic in here."

_This is a risk. Is attempting a personal interaction something someone in her organisation would never do? Even if so, she seems fed up enough with her higher-ups not to care. Keeping it light is the key._

She hesitates. "Oh, what the hell," she says at last, taking it. "You owe me that at least for ambushing me."

John agrees and they make their way slowly through the lush greenhouse, lit only by the full moon through the glass ceiling. Several baroque water features gurgle pleasantly, and a few captive finches chirp from citrus trees. "Nice change from a London February," he comments. "Now, let's start again. Hi. I'm John. Really."

She looks wary for a moment and then says carelessly, "Heidi. I suppose it's not so bad to take a break from my cover. Lady Forsythe is far too popular. It's exhausting, and for eight months straight."

_Her name's not Heidi either, she's not a fool. But it's close enough to the truth that she can pretend she's being honest with him. Which means she wants to be honest, or at least to make some kind of connection. But he's not sure how much more information he can get without betraying his own ignorance._

They stop on a little patio at the end of the conservatory, under an arch covered in twining vines that bear fragrant white flowers. She's a good five inches taller than he is, and isn't much younger, but when the soft light catches her just right she looks like a girl. He reaches up and brushes a strand of hair off her face.

"And what led you to this life of crime?" he asks, sincerely curious.

She smiles sardonically. "I am very, very, very good at it," she tells him. "And very bad at almost everything else."

"Oh, I doubt that."

"You are a very interesting man, John," she says. "Better looking than I thought at first, too."

"I get that a lot, actually," he replies, and she laughs.

"And a better sense of humour than most other criminals."

"Well, I'm new at it. Anyway, you still haven't told me how I can make up ruinning your day."

She looks at him thoughtfully, with a decidedly predatory air, and he realises in all of fifteen minutes she's gone from distant aristocrat to vicious undercover operative to world weary foot soldier to, now, aggressive coquette. Who is this woman? Whoever she is, she's completely brilliant, and very possibly a psychopath. Before he can follow that train of thought, she has bent down and is kissing him. Not chastely.

_Her skin is soft and her lips are sweet and she's wearing some kind of perfume with notes of jasmine. It couldn't be more different than what he's experienced for the better part of a year, and he's missed it. He hates admitting it, but it feels good to kiss a woman, particularly this woman who is full and curvy in the perfect places and could probably kill him easily. It's wrong...or is it? Isn't this what Sherlock wanted him to do? Should he feel guilty for happening to enjoy it?_

She moves closer and John shifts automatically to fit her in his arms. He runs his fingers up and down her back, toying with her hair. "So, what is your natural colour?" he asks, stalling for time.

She whispers in his ear. "Play your cards right and you'll find out."

His brain starts firing every possible alarm bell telling him that he should remove himself from the situation, but he can't quite think of a way to do that at this juncture without raising suspicion. And she's not giving him a whole lot of time to think. Before he quite knows what is happening, her tongue is in his mouth, silky and teasing, and he's got a hand on the swell of her overflowing bodice.

_Even though she's so tall, and so very dangerous, she still somehow makes him feel powerfully masculine, dominant. Sherlock makes him feel that way too, but that is in the way of like meeting like, recognizing the same power and masculinity in each other and delighting in it, taking turns conquering and being conquered. This is meeting the other, the countpart, the feminine power, and delighting in all that is different and opposite. It's exciting and new, yet familiar, and he needs to put an end to it. He doesn't want it, not really, not in exchange for what he has, but it brings back echoes of many nights of passion, now cherished in memory only, and he's not quite ready to let go._

He kisses the gentle curve of her neck, because it's easy to reach, and distantly notices that while his hand, apparently of its own accord, is caressing the long-missed softness of a breast, she's managed to get his waistcoat and dress shirt partially undone and is running a hand up under them, over his chest.

_Too far, it's gone too far. Any further and it's no longer a case or a game or even an indulgence._

He's just about to break away from her, make up some excuse about having to check in with their superiors or having to use the loo or anything that will let him escape without her immediately turning on him, when he hears a polite cough from behind them.

He jumps back and she does too, both hurriedly straightening their clothes. Sherlock is standing there, in his kitchen porter black and apron. He looks embarrassed, like a servant should, and averts his eyes.

"Sorry to interrupt, sir, Lady," he mumbles in a nasal South London accent. "But there's an urgent message for you downstairs, Mr. Colby. You must come right away."

John nods. "Yes, of course. Sorry, I'll just be..."

He turns back to his companion and she is as cold and aloof as if they'd never met. "Of course," she says indifferently. She gives him her hand, slipping him the key card to her room almost undetectably as she does so.

"Right. Yes. Right," he stammers awkwardly, and then turns and follows Sherlock back out of the conservatory.

_He can rationalise what Sherlock has just seen all day, it doesn't matter. Whether that had been the plan for him or not, he can feel even through Sherlock's fake persona that it is Not Good._

Sherlock doesn’t lose the servile attitude until they duck out a side door, at which point he shakes it off it completely and picks up speed, leading them down a side street. He’s stomping ahead so quickly John can barely keep up even at a bit of a run.

“Sherlock! Sherlock slow down. What did you find out?”

Sherlock ignores him and continues at his brutal pace so finally John just stops. He crosses his arms and waits for Sherlock to turn back.

It takes a few seconds but he eventually notices John is no longer following him or calling to him. He spins on his heel and stalks back towards him.

“What,” he demands, “precisely was that?”

John raises an eyebrow. “What was what?”

“You know what I’m talking about.”

_He knows exactly what Sherlock is talking about. But given what Sherlock had suggested to him in the car, it’s not something Sherlock has a right to be talking about._

“I really don’t. I did exactly what you told me. If you didn’t get what you needed, that’s entirely your fault.”

Sherlock snorts. “Of course I got what I needed. But that’s not the point. Who exactly was seducing who in there?”

“I’m sorry?” John says. “I wasn’t aware anyone was supposed to be seducing anyone. Did I miss that memo?”

“Didn’t seem like it. Why didn’t you just go on up to her room?” Sherlock demands. “You were half buried in her décolletage as it was. Bet you could have got some really interesting facts from shagging her!”

“Hey!” John yells. “You didn’t tell me anything about tonight other than that I was to ‘distract’ her while you did God only knows what. I did that. Yes, it got a little physical, but from what I can tell that was your fucking idea in the first place! It didn’t mean anything.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “I saw you. You think I don’t know when you’re aroused? I could smell it on you.”

“I’m heterosexual, so sue me. What exactly did you want me to do?”

“Not that!”

 _Sherlock didn’t want him to do_ that _, but didn’t want him to do_ not-that _either, because_ that _gets results. He’s used to using people, including John, and John tolerates it often enough, but when being used ends up with him being blamed, he’s done._

“You don’t even know, do you? Oh, that’s precious. You wanted me to magically use my attraction and skill with women without actually flirting, touching, or doing anything that might make you jealous. Well, you can’t have it both ways. If you’re not going to bother to share any information about a case with me, then I’m going to use my best judgement as how to proceed. And you’re either going to have to live with it, or start letting me in on your little plots before I violate some rule I didn’t even know was there!”

“I should have thought the rule where you didn’t have your hands underneath someone else’s clothing was fairly obvious.”

“It kept her from leaving and finding you rummaging through her stuff. And if you didn’t like it, you should never have put me in that position. My sexuality is _not_ your plaything. And if you keep using it like it is, you can’t always expect to like the results.”

Sherlock doesn’t reply, he’s standing stiff in the moonlight, his face practically twitching in anger.

“Please tell me you are seeing the hypocrisy here,” John says exasperatedly.

"Are you somehow implying that the assumptions _you_ made about my feelings for a woman you mistakenly thought I was infatuated with are on the same level as you snogging a suspect in front of me?"

"You are infatuated with her," John snaps. "Just because you don't want to get a leg over doesn't mean you aren't infatuated."

_He’s never met anyone more infatuated, and even though Sherlock doesn’t talk about her it’s as intense as ever. He’s made his peace with it as far as he can, but being strung up for a single moment with a woman after months of Sherlock’s mooning over one, however platonically, is too much._

"So, what you're saying is getting physical with someone you _do_ want to get a leg over is an improvement on that?" Sherlock is playing dumb now and it's ticking John off more than ever.

"What I'm saying is that you can either accept the fact that I will always like woman and respect it, respect the power of it, or not. But either way, you do not get to ask me to act like a slag and then punish me for it. In fact, you don't get to ask me to act like a slag at all, just because of how I've been in the past. Particularly when I don't even know why I'm doing it! You have to give me something, Sherlock. Either trust me with information, or trust that I’m not going to betray you. Preferably both."

John stalks off in to the night and hears nothing for long seconds. Finally, there is the sound of footsteps. Sherlock has jogged to catch up with him, and gets in front of him, blocking his path.

To John’s surprise he looks conciliatory. "It’s how I work, when I'm working out a theory... You know that. I can’t always explain when I’m in process."

"Then work different," John tells him with steel in his voice. "Or don't, and live with the fact that I'm not always going to do what you want me to do."

Sherlock opens his mouth to argue but John stops him with a sharp motion.

"I would never have let it get any farther, no matter what you asked me to do. And if you don't believe that, then we have a problem."

He starts walking again, so determinedly that Sherlock moves out of the way and falls in beside him.

_This is tacit acceptance of John's ultimatum. He would have liked to hear Sherlock say it, and an apology wouldn't go wrong, but he's made his point._

After a few moments tramping in silence Sherlock says slyly, in his most darkly seductive voice, "But I thought your sexuality _was_ my plaything."

"Shut it," John barks, unamused.

"Timing?"

"A thousand times yes."

Sherlock nods and is quiet for a few more minutes. John knows it’s not going to last and is not at all surprised when he begins, “So, what did she tell—”

“No.”

“Do you want to know what I—”

“No.”

“When exactly do you think you’ll be finished being furious at me so we can talk about the case?”

_He is still, in fact, really very angry with Sherlock but he has to suppress a smile at the fact that a man who can spend a week working up a good sulk is unable to comprehend that John might be able to hold anything against him for more than five minutes._

“It might go faster if you stopped speaking,” John suggests, irritably.

“Right.”

To his credit Sherlock doesn’t say another word the rest of the way home, even when, after about twenty minutes, John brushes the back of Sherlock’s hand softly with his little finger, just enough to let him know he’s been - mostly - forgiven. 


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock manages to contain himself for the rest of the night and part of the next morning, until they are sitting at breakfast, finishing the last of the coffee. John is paging through the paper when Sherlock decides he can't take it anymore.

"John! Really." Sherlock jumps up and starts circling the room. "If you were any more smug I'd have a sunburn."

_Smugness is like sunlight? He'll have to remember that one. It's always fascinating to hear what Sherlock's brain does with his moods. Or, rather, Sherlock's perception of his moods._

John smiles inwardly and decides Sherlock's been punished enough. He puts down the paper. "All right, all right. The case. You first. Who was that woman and what is going on?"

Sherlock frowns, clearly hoping John would share what he'd learned first, but doesn't argue. "Her real name is unknown, but she works for an organisation known as Les Butineuses."

"Never heard of them."

"No, you wouldn't have. They're active mainly on the Continent, based out of Belgium. Racketeering, smuggling, general thievery, that sort of thing. Very large ring, been around for ages, but never a major player. They don't like messy business, so they've stayed out of the spy game, as well as the sex and drugs trade. It's been a successful strategy - they make money but never get in too much trouble or threaten anyone extraordinarily dangerous. To my knowledge, this is the first action they've taken on British soil."

"So they're expanding, then?"

Sherlock nods. "Chatter is there's someone new involved, he's taking things in a more aggressive - and lucrative - direction."

_No wonder she'd seemed touchy, if she's being forced out of her comfort zone, her organisation changing around her._

"Yeah, she mentioned something like that."

"What? What did she mention? Quickly!"

John relates his conversation with the imposter aristocrat. "She mentioned someone who sounded like he was in charge, just called him 'him', but she didn't seem to like it and said she wasn't allowed to meet him."

"Yes," breathes Sherlock, eyes glittering. "I knew it!"

"Okay, enough mystery. What did you find out? What is this shipment she was talking about? What are they setting up Bryant for?"

"I am not yet certain about the contents of the shipment she's referring to, although I have a strong suspicion. But whatever is in it, they're going to steal it and pin it on Bryant. That way, no mess. We will have to intercept them in the act to prove Bryant's innocence. But as she told you, for security reasons the shipments are only announced 24 hours beforehand, and only to the highest levels in the company."

"So how will we know?"

"Bryant now has the highest level clearance. They don't know he's aware his security status has been altered so they won't be watching him. He'll have to keep an eye out and alert us when the shipment is arriving, then we shall have to move quickly. I thought as much, but now we have confirmation and a time frame. Excellent." He rubs his hands together in gleeful anticipation. "Best not make plans to leave town for awhile, we want to be ready to pounce!"

_Sherlock's excitement is catching as always, so catching John doesn't even have a chance to mind that he's just been effectively chained to London for an indefinite time period._

John grins. "One thing I don't understand, though. This whole set-up, infiltrating the Ginger Club, multiple people working for months... It seems like a lot of trouble for a single heist. How valuable can a one shipment of anything be?"

"You'd be surprised," Sherlock tells him, bending down to kiss the back of his neck with gusto. "But it does appear more elaborate than it needs to be. I believe this is a test run. As you've noted, the Society for Ginger Advancement has a lot of wealthy and high profile people in it, as well as people like Bryant - at first glance, unimportant, but actually holding a key position that can prove incredibly useful.   
  
"If this works out, my theory is they'll target more members of the club in a similar way. MOD employees, bank officials, auction house workers. Exploit them and pick them off one by one, in such a way that no one will catch on to what's happening. Ingenious, really. And suddenly Les Butineuses is one of the top dogs in Britain or Europe. All while keeping their hands relatively clean."

"Genius."

"Thank you," Sherlock gives a mock bow.

"Not you, them. Tosser."

_It's not like John's ever lacking in praise for Sherlock. He just needs to be brought up short now and again._

Sherlock looks a bit crestfallen, as he often does when John lets a bit of air out of his ego, but soldiers on. "Come on then, we'd better go talk to Bryant."

It only takes about fifteen minutes to explain the situation to Bryant. It takes another thirty for John to talk him out of having a complete nervous breakdown, while Sherlock lazily searches the house for bugs or other new evidence.

"No surveillance inside. Not surprising. They won't want anything found when the police search his house."

Bryant, who had just started to relax, begins hyperventilating again at the word "police". John glares at Sherlock and he shuts up.

_Sherlock's beginning to show all the signs of heading towards destructive boredom, and John can safely assume the victim would be their client. The man has enough to worry about, and there's not much more John can do for him anyway. He'd better get Sherlock out._

"We've got it under control," John tells Bryant soothingly. "Nothing is going to happen to you. Just call if you find out anything about a shipment and we'll be along immediately, and if there's problem with the police we'll handle it for you. Okay?"

Bryant nods weakly and John says, "Good man."

He hustles Sherlock out the door before he can be heard to mutter "Well, _something's_ going to happen to him."

They stop for groceries on the way back, always an adventure with Sherlock, but make it home having purchased only what they needed, plus one exotic fruit Sherlock suspects might be misidentified and poisonous, and a tin of some Spanish condiment he wants to try to turn into an explosive.

John's just putting the bags down when Sherlock calls out flatly, "John, we've got a client."

"What, in the bedroom?" he asks, joining Sherlock at the door.

The question answers itself. There, in Sherlock's bed - their bed - lies the Woman. She has showered in their shower, is wearing Sherlock's clothes, and sleeping between their sheets. She looks small and fragile and John kind of wants to strangle her for it.

_Her appearance, this intrusion, it's completely calculated. She's putting herself between them, making herself seem helpless to apply to whatever pity or attraction Sherlock might have for her. It's disgusting, and what disgusts him more is how effective it is._

The crackle between them is palpable as they banter over her case, sexual and intellectual energy so thick in the air that John can't help but burst out in jealousy. They both look at him like they'd forgotten he was there and then continue as if he isn't. He's not sure who he's more angry at right now, but stays because there's no way in hell he's leaving them alone like this.

Sherlock solves her puzzle in record time and in turn she flagrantly propositions him.

"Until you begged for mercy. Twice," she tells him, and the stare between the two of them is so intense as far as John's concerned they might as well already be having sex in front of him. He is finding himself so furious at Sherlock, at her, that he almost can't breathe. Like he's watching his whole relationship vaporise in front of him.

But then Sherlock, still apparently lost in her eyes, says, "John, please can you check those flight schedules to see if I'm right?"

_And it's enough, barely. Whatever he thinks about the Woman, whatever allure she holds for him, physical, mental, emotional, John is still in his head. He doesn't need John to check the schedules, he's memorised the schedules. He needs John to know that however loud her music gets, it's not the only thing he can hear. And John needs to trust Sherlock's word that whatever is between him and the Woman, however it may seem, isn't love, or sex. At least on his end._

John reins himself in and does as he's asked. She's still trying to seduce Sherlock, and John's still fuming, but Sherlock is off in another world. Something about John's answer sparked a new train of thought and he's lost to both of them now, probably for some time, wandering into the sitting room and picking at his violin.

Ms. Adler, still clad only in Sherlock's best dressing gown, asks him a question and he ignores her.

"He can't hear you," John tells her, settling in his chair and picking up a book at random. _The Origins and Effects of Aurally Administered Toxins: Historical and Fictional._ Ear poisons, great, fine. He starts reading determinedly and, thankfully, she remains silent. Although he hates the hungry, speculatively look with which she continues to scrutinise Sherlock.

_She looks at him like he's dinner. Worse, she looks at him like he's hers and just doesn't know it yet._

John's been reading for more than an hour, failing to take any of it in, when he hears the woman mutter to herself.

"The iceman and the virgin...but which is which?"

"Pardon me?" John asks sharply.

"Oh, nothing," she says with an infuriating little smile. "Just something someone said to me once."

"Right." John slams the book shut and goes into the kitchen, taking vegetables out of the fridge to make something for a late tea. He doesn't particularly know why - he's not hungry, Sherlock won't be eating, and he certainly has no intention of cooking for the Woman. But it gives him something to do with his hands that involves a knife. It helps.

To his dismay, she follows him, curling up in a chair while he chops carrots.

_She's like a damned cat. Only around when you want them least. Although, really, any time she's there is the time he wants her around least._

"He acts like a virgin," she says out of nowhere. "But he's not, is he?"

John's hand nearly slips and he spins to face her.

"You've made sure of that, haven't you Dr. Watson?"

"I don't see how you could think that could possibly be any of your business," he snarls in a whisper, so as not to disturb Sherlock. Not that he could.

She spreads her hands. "It is my business. Literally."

"No. No, not him, he isn't."

"How do you know?"

He manages to contain himself, but it's a close thing. "You know, I've never wanted to hit a woman before."

"Go on, then. I've had at least as much practice as you. Who knows, one of us might even like it." She leans back in the chair and stretches out her bare legs. "Come now, Doctor. I've not hidden anything from you, at least not when it comes to Sherlock. You could do me the same courtesy. We might even find common ground. Is that so strange?"

John, with difficulty, puts down the knife and sits forcefully down in the chair opposite her. "No, we won't," he tells her, keeping his voice calm although not entirely devoid of anger. "Because you, Ms. Adler, are making the mistake of thinking that you and I are competing on a level playing field. We're not. In fact, we're not competing at all, because you never got off the bench. You can flirt and proposition and strip naked for him from now till the sun goes cold, but it won't get you anywhere. At least not anywhere you'd want to go."

She raises an eyebrow, serene as ever. "So, I was right."

_He's tempted to lie even now, tempted by the instinct to keep it away from her, hidden from her at all costs. But he's gone too far and so has she. Going on the offensive is the only solution._

"Yes," he tells her. "You're right. And I've had him every single way you could possibly think of, and probably a few you couldn't."

"I have an active imagination."

" _Quite_ a few you couldn't. Go ahead, be as fascinating and mysterious as you like, bring him cases and play the damsel-in-distress card and the shameless dominatrix card and the international power broker card and whatever other cards come to mind. And he might play along because, whether I like it or not, there is something about you that he cannot resist. But he'll never give you what you want, and he'll never be yours."

She seems at least to consider that, if not accept it, taking a few moments to think before she replies. "If he's as thoroughly deflowered as you say, then why does he seem so..."

"So what?"

"Innocent. Naïve. Unaffected."

_Because sex isn't sex to Sherlock. He doesn't think of it in relation to himself the way he thinks of it when other people have it; squalid and distracting and common. To him it's data collection and it's an exploration of the needs and limits of his own body and, most importantly, it's how he and John know each other. Sex is part endless experiment and part secret language that only they can understand together. But she couldn't comprehend that, and he doesn't have any interest in sharing it. There are other reasons, too._

"I realise you may not encounter this a whole lot in your line of work," John tells her. "But Sherlock is one of the few men with a completely pure soul."

She laughs hard enough to produce a very un-ladylike snort. "Oh really?"

"Yes, really." He's dead serious. "I didn't say he was nice or kind or even always good. He can be cruel and selfish and cold. He's got a side to him that could go to the bad in an instant, and a wicked drug habit. He is often hurtful and completely unaware of and uninterested in the needs or feelings or even the existence of others."

"And that's a pure soul, is it?"

"Yes. Because whatever he is, he knows it. Whatever he's pursuing, he pursues absolutely. He doesn't hesitate or doubt himself. He doesn't change just to please others. He can't be tempted, bribed, or coerced, he'll never compromise himself or his skill. His values and morality are his own and they might be a little bit awful sometimes, but he makes no excuses for it. His choices are his alone.

“He strives to be better without ever pretending he's something he isn't. And while he could turn criminal so easily, so quickly, he knows it and he never will. No one can take anything away from him or leave any stain on him. What you see as a kind of virginity, a naïveté, stems from the simple fact that what Sherlock Holmes is, is the one and only incorruptible human being I've ever met. Even if human isn't always the first descriptor you'd apply. And if you don't understand that about him, you've got even less of a chance than I thought."

_He'd never said those words before, never codified those thoughts about Sherlock into something coherent in his own mind. But saying them out loud, he knows he believes it totally. He knows this is what drew him so deeply to Sherlock, his essential honesty that reaches far deeper than the playacting and superficial untruths he uses to solve cases and test those around him. Saying it is like a rush of relief, because now he can feel it, in his heart. Sherlock is his. The Woman is inconsequential to what they have, she has no power to change it. He can let go of it now._

For once, she seems speechless, cocking her head at him as if trying to determine if he really means what he'd just said. He meets her gaze steadily.

"So, you won't mind if I test that, then? If I act like I don't know about the two of you, try to... corrupt him..."

John gives her a wolfish smile. "Go right ahead. I'm going out."

He washes his hands and gathers his jacket and mobile. He stops on his way out the door. "He's going to start talking soon," he informs her. "That will be for me."

"Won't it be a problem that you're gone?"

"Not really. But don't bother responding. He won't be listening, and prefers to talk cases over with me. At least, some version of me." He walks out the door before she can answer that, and finds himself in a better mood than he can remember in a long time. He feels confident now, and slightly ashamed of his insecurity and jealousy surrounding someone so utterly irrelevant.

_Let her just try._

John texts Stamford to meet him at the Hanging Dog. Stamford's good for a reliably fun time out, and never asks any questions John might not want to answer. There's a match on and they stay out late, though John is careful not to drink too much.

When he returns home Sherlock is gone and so is the Woman. He refuses to let that worry him, and focuses on the fact that at least she is not there. He tidies the flat, strips the bed and launders the sheets - and the towels and Sherlock's blue dressing gown. Once he's remade the bed, which now only smells of cleanness, he decides he's purged 221B of her presence adequately, climbs into it, and falls asleep.

He wakes when, some hours later, Sherlock slides into bed next to him, naked and silent as a shadow.

John groggily puts an arm out to touch his side. "All right?"

"Hmm? Yes. It's over."

"What's over?" John had never been quite sure what had been going on with the case in the first place.

"A lot of things. The Woman is gone."

John raises his eyebrows in the dark. "Will she be back?"

"No."

"You're sure?"

"Yes."

"And you're... okay with that."

John can feel the withering look Sherlock's giving him, and the detective doesn't answer.

_It seems like the spell has been largely broken but he can still feel her there, in a corner of his friend's mind. It doesn't trouble him anymore, though. Sherlock can think about what he likes._

"Are you going to sleep?"

"No."

"I'll go upstairs then, don't want to bother you." John moves to get up.

"No. Stay, please. I need some light in here."

John stays put.

"You were lava-y before," Sherlock says after a long pause. "Vesuvius."

John chuckles. "Yes, I was a bit. What about now?"

"Tea lights, floating on a pool. It's soothing."

"Glad I can help," John tells him, putting his head back down.

_John will happily be a nightlight for Sherlock Holmes for as long he'll have him._

 


	10. Chapter 10

Things are pretty quiet for the next few weeks, mostly small cases, nothing potentially fatal. Life at 221B goes back to something that could be called normal, given the right frame of reference. John uses the time to write up the Woman’s case, which he finds cathartic, as well several others he’d never had time to.  Sherlock has just enough to keep him from hitting insane levels of boredom.

_When did simple missing spouses and stolen jewellery and light blackmail become the definition of restful? But John doesn’t mind. He doesn’t handle boredom much better than Sherlock, if he’s honest._

It’s so pleasant that John has nearly forgotten about Bryant’s case until Sherlock bounds up the stairs three at a time and bursts into John’s room.

“John!” he booms. “Wait, what are you doing up here?”

John motions to the book in his hand.

“Well, yes, obviously, but why up here?”

“Because the rest of the flat smells of a rotting cantaloupe stuffed with anchovies.”

 Sherlock waves the comment away. “Simple chemical reaction, completely harmless. No reason for barricading yourself on another floor.”

  _And he wonders why John wants to keep his room. One day Sherlock’s going to blow up the flat and then this will be the only room they have left._

 “You came up here for a reason other to complain about my absence?” John hints.

 “Ah. Yes! Bryant telephoned. It’s tonight! 1 am.”

 “The shipment comes in?”

 “The shipment goes out,” Sherlock corrects.

 “I thought it was something arriving!”

 “So did I. This is much more interesting. Better get ready now so we can collect Bryant and be in place well before midnight.”

 “Midnight? I thought you said one.”

 “That’s when it’s scheduled to ship, but I can’t imagine that our friends want to run into whoever is actually supposed to be picking it up. They’ll show up early with all the right clearances and be gone long before the real pick up time.”

 John nods, getting up and starting to change out of his lounging clothes. “Gun?”

“Yes, to be safe, although don’t draw unless you have to. I can’t imagine this lot will be armed. They’ll want to make sure if they’re caught, they can’t be charged with that as well.”

_What John might be charged with if his illicit sidearm is ever discovered doesn’t bear thinking about. He thinks Lestrade suspects and is choosing to ignore it, but he really doesn’t want to test that theory._

“Are you sure taking Bryant with us is a good idea?” John asks.

“Hm? What?” Sherlock asks, distracted.

“I said—hey, stop ogling me and pay attention.”

Sherlock manages to tear his eyes away from John’s bared torso. “Listening,” he says, less than convincingly.

“I said are you sure we should take Bryant with us? He’s not very stable, he might panic. Or have a heart attack.”

“We’ll have to take the risk. He won’t be safe in his house, and if he’s with us we can give him an alibi if we need to.”

“What, tell them he can’t have done it because he was with us the whole time, at the scene of the crime?” John asks.

“Helping us stop the criminals. He’ll be a hero.”

“I’m not sure that’s the sort of thing he’s cut out for,” John mutters, and finishes getting dressed.

They arrive at the paper company in plenty of time. Bryant is white as a sheet and shaking, but doesn’t appear in immediate danger of passing out. The office and warehouse areas are both dark. It’s only once they’re huddled in the cold outside of the warehouse that Sherlock deigns to explain the plan.

_Of course they couldn’t have done this inside, in the warm, where there was no need to whisper. That would just spoil the fun._

“Now, there will be workers and probably at least one upper-level management type overseeing the shipment. The first step of our thieves will be to get inside and disable them, so they have control of the warehouse. Entrance to the loading area is controlled by a complex electronic security system that requires the lorries entering the compound and pulling up to the platforms to emit exactly the right code on the right frequency via a small device on their undercarriage. It’s possible they will have stolen a lorry, but more likely that they are using their own lorry and have stolen one of the tracking devices.”

“So what are we going to do?” John asks.

“The strongest case against them will be if we wait until they’ve actually loaded the shipment into the lorry to stop them. John, you’ll follow the lorry when it comes. Once it’s in place, take out the driver and whoever is with him.”

_Oh sure, just “take him out”. Easy as anything. But John knows it probably will be easy for him, and Sherlock’s casual confidence in his abilities is heart warming._

Sherlock continues. “Bryant and I will break into the warehouse. He can find and free the workers, while I observe the loading process. Once they have everything in the lorry, you and I together can apprehend the remaining criminals, hopefully with the help of some of the workers Mr. Bryant has freed.”

Bryant gulps.

“Don’t worry,” John tells him. “We’ll keep you out of the action. And rescuing your co-workers and boss will go a long way to testifying to your innocence.”

“Yes, of course,” Sherlock agrees absently.

“What about Heidi or Lady Forsythe or whomever she is? Where do you think she’ll be?”

“Why, hoping for another snog?” Sherlock asks nastily.

_He can’t just ever let anything go. Why doesn’t he delete those memories instead of his primary school lessons?_

Bryant gives them both a concerned look.

“Lay off,” John snaps. “I’m just saying, she’s dangerous and she knows me. I’d like to have some idea of when to expect her to try to kill me.”

Sherlock subsides. “It’s most likely she’ll be in the warehouse, with the advance guard, making sure everything is secure before the lorry arrives. I’ll take care of her.”

“Good luck,” John mumbles under his breath.

“What was that?”

“Nothing… just at what point in this operation would you care to involve the police?”

Sherlock waves that away as inconsequential. “In due time. Once we’re at a point where things are obvious enough we won’t have to explain ourselves. Much.”

John rolls his eyes.

“Shut up. All right, John, you wait at the entrance of the compound and we’ll go in through the offices.”

“What about security? My card’s gone again, I can’t swipe us in.” Bryant says.

“Yes, they will have used it to get in tonight, to incriminate you. No need to worry, I made one of my own. Come along.”

Sherlock sweeps away, followed by the reluctant Bryant. John’s still concerned he might lose it, possibly in such a way as to get them all in trouble. Sherlock’s not exactly sensitive to that sort of thing, although he does have a certain skill in controlling people’s moods for short periods when he needs something from them, so perhaps it will be okay.

John crouches in the dark by the outer-most of three automatic gates, fenced high and electrified at the top, between the regular service entrance and the loading dock at back of the warehouse. The total distance isn’t far, but if he’s to keep up with the lorry and slip through when it does without being seen, he’ll have to be quick.

He briefly considers jumping the driver at the first stop and bringing the lorry in himself, but they’ll be more alert at the first gate and he’s not sure if the security device requires some kind of activation or if it’s automatic. Better to run, then, and get them once they think they’re safe.

_He wonders how Sherlock and Bryant are making out. No distress signals from Sherlock, so that’s a good sign. Still, he’s been known to overestimate his own abilities, not to mention John’s. Who knows how many people are in there, really?_

John waits for long enough that when a vehicle finally does come into view, it’s almost a surprise. He tenses in a crouch as they approach his position. Sure enough, after only slight hesitation, the gate swings open. John darts through immediately behind them and then circles wide, out of the lights of the drive and the lorry, sprinting to the next gate and making it there before the lorry does, though not without a fair amount of laboured breathing.

He repeats the performance without being spotted, and then at the third gate slips through and remains still just on the other side, while they manoeuvre the lorry into the dock, watching. There are three people in the cab, the driver, a large man, and a woman, medium build, who looks edgy and frustrated with her companions. The large man, the muscle, gets out and opens the back of the lorry and then returns to the cab, grumbling about the cold as he gets back in.

_The cold, John can’t even the feel the cold, this is too exciting. Although to be fair he can’t feel his feet either. But who has time to be cold when on a dangerous night time mission? Adrenaline is the warmest thing he knows._

John creeps up to the side of the lorry. The driver is on the phone now.

“Yeah. Right where you told us. Well, what’s the hold up? Fine.” He hangs up. “Gonna be a few, some trouble with the doors.”

“My bollocks are freezing off,” the muscle says.

“Both of you, just knock it off,” the female says sharply. She’s surveying the compound carefully. She’s the only one who expects trouble.

With three of them in the cab, John can hardly go and storm it. They’d have him in an instant. Carefully, he edges around to the back of the vehicle and climbs silently inside, hiding himself in a little corner of darkness made by the back door frame. Sometimes being small is no bad thing. He pulls out his gun and then knocks loudly, three times on the metal.

 John can hear the commotion up front, and two people get out. The female and the muscle, as he’d guessed. Mondo’s making his way around back while she’s sweeping the perimeter. Perfect.

The behemoth of a man peers into the back. “Tommy, you playing wi’ us? Get serious, we need to get out of here and done!”

John tosses a coin all the way to the front of the compartment and holds his breath. Luck is with him, and with a grunt the guard heaves himself up and inside.

“ ‘Ere, who’s in there?” he calls, angry now. He walks right past John’s well-hidden form and the second his back is completely to John, John bursts out of the shadows and clobbers him mercilessly on the cervical plexus with his Sig, enough to fully knock him out before he can make a noise. John catches him before he can fall and eases him down – with difficulty, he’s a heavy man – and out of sight from the ground.

_He’s proud of himself for doing that without making a noise. The woman will be trickier, he prefers not to hurt women and she’s a smart one. Still, she is a criminal. He’ll have to try not to feel too bad about knocking her about, if he has to._

Unsurprisingly, she’s come around the back of the lorry to look for her companion. When she doesn’t see him, she doesn’t call out or climb in to investigate. She looks around alertly and then reaches for her phone. Before she can dial, John uses the split second of inattention to leap from his hiding spot the lorry and tackle her. She goes down hard, struggling against him with fairly impressive force, but he’s got her arms behind her back and a hand clapped over her mouth.

“I really don’t want to have to put you unconscious as well,” he tells her quietly. “But I will if I have to.”

She growls something into his hand that is certainly incredibly obscene and manages to get an elbow back into his stomach with enough force to knock the wind out of him.

“Fine, sorry,” John mutters and shifts his hold on her to compress her carotid artery and jugular vein on both side of her neck enough, without restricting her airway, that she slumps silently in his arms after only a few seconds.

She’ll be out for a few, and so will the hulk, so he should have enough time to deal with the driver. He crawls back up to the front and hides himself under the cab. It’s less than a minute before the drivers opens the door and climbs out, calling to his accomplices. The second his feet hit the ground, John sweeps a leg, knocking his balance out from under him. John’s on the driver before he can even start to scramble up again. He quickly applies the same hold on the driver as he had on the woman, and he goes limp and quiet.

_It’s the easiest way he’s found to knock someone out without risking severe damage, brain injury, or accidental strangulation. He may love to take out the bad guys, but he’s still a doctor and these people hadn’t attacked anyone._

Before any of them can clamber back to consciousness, John takes the rope he’s brought out of his bag and binds and gags them securely. He rolls each of them under the truck, where they are obscured by shadows. He doesn’t want their compatriots to find them in the back when they go to load the shipment and can’t imagine wrestling the three of them into the cab. Besides, he might end up needing to drive it. He carefully aligns them to they won’t be crushed by the wheels if the lorry pulls forward.

John texts Sherlock that he’s secured the outside, but isn’t surprised not to receive any response. He climbs up onto the loading dock and positions himself just to the side of the door, waiting for it to open. Long minutes go by and just as he’s about to start to worry that something’s gone off, he hears a loud grinding noise and the massive metal door creaks open. He can hear about four people right inside, struggling with something heavy.

As he watches, first one fully loaded pallet and then another are wheeled out of the warehouse and into the truck.

“Hey, Johnno,” says a gruff voice. “Get those loafers to come and help us!”

They’re talking about the driver and his comrades. Time to make his move, before they can discover what’s happened.

_John prays Sherlock is where he’d said he’d be._

Three of them are in the back of the lorry, securing the pallets, and one is standing just inside the warehouse. John comes at him quickly, landing a punch before the man can quite process what’s happening. He fights back, John successfully ducking several punches before one catches him on the jaw and he stumbles back.

The others in the lorry are moving now, and he’s about to be well and truly overwhelmed.            

“Sherlock, when you’ve got a minute!” John shouts and then puts his head down and rams his opponent full force in the stomach, slamming him into another nearby pallet hard enough to keep him down for at least a few seconds. He jumps back so all four are in front of him and pulls out his Sig. “Stop! Right where you are, hands where I can see them.”

They freeze and John hears a voice behind him. “That was truly a sight to behold, John. Well done.”

“You did take your sweet time, dickhead,” John snaps at him.

“Only because I like to watch to you work. You can hardly blame me.”

Sherlock walks around him and hauls the fourth man to his feet roughly. He shrieks in pain and John winces at Sherlock’s callousness. Sherlock pushes him in to the back of the lorry and pulls the door down on all four of them, locking it from the outside. “Others?”

“Underneath. They’ll hold.”

Sherlock peers beneath the lorry and raises an eyebrow. “I didn’t expect there to be more than two. That’s seven for you. A record?”

_It’s become a game to them, hasn’t it? It shouldn’t be a game, a contest, but despite all that it is fun. And as long as they’re talking about captured criminals and not body count, John’s conscience won’t give him too much trouble._

John holsters his weapon, and tries to slow his heartbeat and get his breath back. “And for you?”

“Just the three guards at the door,” Sherlock replies, in a bored tone. “Child’s play. Never saw us coming.”

“Where is Bryant, by the way?”

“Keeping an eye on them and tending to the captives we rescued. Four warehouse workers, a vice president, and the CEO. I rather think he’s about to get a promotion. He held up surprisingly well, considering.”

_Sherlock can be unexpectedly kind to people sometimes. Somehow he gave Bryant enough courage to pull through, and put him in position that could benefit from this nightmare, probably so smoothly no one else, including Bryant, had noticed._

“Police are coming,” he continues. “Nine minutes. Till, then, we’re alone…”

Sherlock’s got that look on his face that he gets when he’s just seen John do something terribly brave and dangerous, and John only has a second to brace himself before Sherlock is on him.

His lips slam into John’s bruisingly as he pulls John tight to him with a long arm around his waist.

“Ah, gently!” John mumbles between kisses. “I _took_ hits too!”

Sherlock relents slightly, but continue with his aggressive pursuit, and John isn’t going to protest. He pushes back, hands at Sherlock hips, teeth on Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock efficiently gets John’s trousers undone and has a hand inside them almost before John can notice.

“How fast can you do this?” John whispers breathlessly.

“Eight and a half minutes,” Sherlock growls back.

“Right.” John pushes him off balance. Sherlock hits the hard floor with surprising lightness and John dives after him, straddling him while grabbing his slender wrists and using them to pin his arms over his head.

_One day they’re going to get caught at this, but for once John doesn’t care, the rush of the adrenalin has to be channeled somewhere, and the fierce, hurried sex they sometime manage on cases like this is the best John’s ever experienced. If that’s an addiction then count him in._

He’s just about tear open Sherlock’s shirt with his teeth when he hears the unmistakable click of a gun being cocked.

John freezes, then slowly turns his head to see a tall, curvaceous woman with waves of copper hair, dressed all in black and pointing a weapon at them.

“Well, this certainly explains a few things,” she drawls, nodding at the two of them on the floor. “Actually, it takes the sting out of the rejection.”

“You didn’t take care of her?!” John hisses to Sherlock.

Sherlock has the good grace to look sheepish. “There was no sign of her. I deduced that she’d opted not to come personally so as to not risk her placement within the Ginger Society.”

“Well, you deduced wrong. Berk!”

She clears her throat. “Boys, we’re paying attention to me now. And you can get up and put yourselves back together. I really don’t need to see what happens next here.”

They do as she says and she grins.

“What on earth are you possibly stealing that could be worth all this?” John demands. “This is a paper factory for God’s sake. What, they make cocaine on the side?”

“Not quite. Mr. Holmes? Care to do the honours?”

Sherlock nods and walks carefully over to one of the remaining pallets, motioning John to follow. “What is it?”

_Even in this situation, when they both might be about to die, Sherlock is testing him._

John squints at the plastic-wrapped contents. “Paper. It just looks like paper. Some kind of newsprint, maybe?”

“Not quite,” she says.  “Go on.”

“This is the paper they print British banknotes on,” Sherlock says. “It’s a well-kept secret, for obvious reasons, but this is the factory that makes it. They’re very skilled. It’s shipped from here directly to the Bank of England, where it’s printed up and distributed.”

“Counterfeiting,” John says. “Of course. But don’t you need special inks as well? Those aren’t made here.”

“Oh, the ink is the easy part,” Sherlock dismisses. “An experienced banker can tell, of course, but what tips off most people to fake bills is the way they feel. There’s no substitute for the paper. Once you have that, you can make all the money you want.”

“Not bad, Mr. Holmes. You are as good as they say. Now, what to do with you? I’m not to kill you, which is fine by me. So much work to cover that sort of thing up. You’re going to have to come with me though. There are people who want to meet you.”

  _That sounds ominous. Had she known who he was the whole time? Had this all just been in a set up to get him and Sherlock where they could be captured?_

“You’re not going to get out of here with your prize. Police are on the way,” John tells her.

“You two _are_ my prize,” she says. “I bring you in, I can have my pick of assignments. Now, move.”

She waves them toward the door with the gun. Sherlock makes the little motion with his head that John should be ready, something’s going to happen.

“Whatever you say,” John agrees amiably, moving as slowly as he dares.

Then, a bunch of things happen all at once. There is a loud flash and an invisible force slams into his whole body. Their captor drops her gun and falls to the floor. Sherlock grabs him and pushes him behind a pallet, then disappears in her direction.

John’s ears are ringing and his head is killing him. A flashbang. Where did Sherlock get that? And who deployed it? He pulls himself to his feet and looks around. He sees the retreating form of Abel Bryant just through the open door. Must have been him, on Sherlock’s prior instructions.

_Damn him, he knew she was in the building, he was faking ignorance and vulnerability to lure her out. John would feel used, if he didn’t know that at least Sherlock wasn’t faking the lust – jumping him after something like this was standard procedure._

He casts about for Sherlock and finally spots him at the other end of the warehouse, engaged in furious hand to hand combat with their target. John moves closer, slowly, still feeling the stun grenade, but neither pay him any mind. He decides to let this play out for a moment. They seem pretty evenly matched and as much as John hates fighting women, fighting one he’s kissed just seems excessively wrong. Besides, it gives him a chance to admire Sherlock.

Sherlock’s moves are impressive, a combination of boxing, jujitsu, and capoeira. John doesn’t often get to watch him fight, as he’s usually in a fight of his own at the time, and takes pleasure in it. Sherlock is exceedingly graceful, and his body is perfectly honed. She’s fast though, and she’s got relentless power. She’s making him use twice the energy just to connect, and when he does get a foot in her side, she barely stumbles and instead presses on, putting Sherlock immediately on the defensive.

John’s come round behind her, and Sherlock has spotted him but doesn’t motion for assistance. She lands a hit to Sherlock’s throat just then, making him cough and fall back, and that’s enough for John. Before she can realise he’s there, he grabs her arm and twists it up behind her back, hard enough to make her cry out. Sherlock reaches out and with one smooth motion takes her other wrist, spins her around from John so her back is to him, and neatly clicks the handcuffs into place.

“So glad you still carry those,” John grins.

She struggles against Sherlock but without her hands or her balance she’s got no advantage. Just then, what seems to be a fleet of police officers, led by Greg Lestrade, storm into the warehouse.

_He doesn’t look amused that they’ve pulled an operation without bothering to inform him until it was over. But then, he never does._

“Ah, excellent,” Sherlock says. “Here’s one for you. One Ms. Hanna Mihov, unless I'm quite mistake. Citizen of Bulgaria and high placed member of Les Butineuses. I suspect she will be able to tell you some very interesting things. Watch out, she’s a fighter.”

He hands her over to two of the bulkier officers.

“Goodbye, John,” she says, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “It was loads of fun.”

“Wait,” John says, before they can take her away. “Who was _him_? You kept referring to _him_. Who is it?”

She sniffs and looks past him to Sherlock. “You know who _he_ is, don’t you Mr. Holmes? And he’s going to be seing you again very soon.”

The looks on Sherlock’s face hardens, and he motions curtly for the officers to get her out of his sight.

_Moriarty. It’s Moriarty. He’s hunting Sherlock even now, even through this case. Playing with him, making him dance, like a rat in a trap, before he comes to try and finish the job. John’s heart fills with the kind of fear he’s only experienced a few times in his life._

“Sherlock,” he says urgently to his friend.

“Yes, John, I know,” Sherlock replies grimly. Then he puts on his brightest false smile. “Ah, Detective Inspector Lestrade, how good of you to finally join us, now that all the excitement is over!”

“You know, we would have been here sooner if you’d called us,” Lestrade thunders. “Like you’re supposed to. I know you think you’re God’s gift to—”

“Never mind that,” Sherlock says over him, pulling out a data stick. “Here’s everything you need to know about this case, including information on the larger crime ring, and proof of our client’s complete and total innocence. Will that be enough for you? Awfully nice to put on your resume…”

Lestrade glowers at him furiously for a moment, then snatches the data stick from Sherlock’s hand. “Go on with you, then,” he snaps. “Give your statements and then get out of here.”

Sherlock smiles triumphantly, a real smile this time, and pushes John towards the police cars waiting outside.

“Sorry about him,” John tells Greg, as he walks away. He doesn’t mean it in the slightest. 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter! Almost 11 months and I'm done! I know I probably should have spaced these last few chapters out a bit more but the Instant Gratification Monkey is jumping up and down inside my brain and I just need it to be done! Thanks to ScopesMonkey for proofing this chapter, and the previous three.

 

“Home?” asks John. Hanna is long gone, Sally is using her gentlest manner to collect a statement from a very shaken-up Bryant, and they’ve both told the police everything they know, thrice. It’s nearly dawn and John can hardly remember being so tired.

Sherlock shakes his head. “I’ve got a plane to catch.”

“A plane? Now?! Where are you going?”

“I’ll be back within the week. In accordance with our agreement.”

_Sherlock is used to wandering the world with relative freedom, but it gives John palpitations when he disappears for weeks on end and leaves no way to contact him or hint of where he’s gone. They’ve reached an understanding in which Sherlock can go be mysterious, provided he gives John a time frame, takes his mobile, and provides some way for John to find where he’s gone if he’s not back on time. He agrees to answer if John calls, and John agrees not call unless it’s an emergency. Technically, John could do the same, although it would never occur to him to take off without telling someone where he’d gone, and he doubts Sherlock would obey the rules if he tried._

John frowns, but doesn’t object. Sherlock doesn’t do well on a tether. “All right, if you must. I’ll get Bryant home when they’re done with him.”

Sherlock nods. “I’ll expect you to have something decent lined up to work on when I get back.”

John glances to see if anyone is watching. He traces a finger affectionately along the line of Sherlock’s lapel, and steps just a little closer to him. “Just don’t get in the middle of any wars or accuse any world leaders of treason, okay?”

Sherlock claps him on the upper arm, grins, and disappears, leaving John shaking his head tolerantly.

_The truth is he adores that Sherlock is wild and free like that, that he can’t be kept or caged. He’d never try to take that away. He just wishes Sherlock weren’t so secretive, that he didn’t have to worry that something’s happened when he’s away. Then again, if Sherlock did tell John what he was doing half the time, John probably would refuse to ever let him go alone._

John finally arrives home mid-morning and collapses on the sofa. When he wakes, Mrs. Hudson brings him a hot meal, for which he is eternally grateful. Between the stun grenade and the fighting he’s quite sore, and feels a bit aimless without a case. He eats heartily and takes a long soak, which revives him, but he’s still not quite sure what to do with himself.

Usually, when Sherlock’s away, he uses the time to detoxify the flat, get rid of old experiments in danger of becoming more serious health hazards, and generally prevent the place from drifting into condemnable territory. And it’s also a good chance to spend some time with friends he doesn’t see often.

He plans to do all those things, but realises he also wants to do something for Sherlock, something to surprise him with on his return. He’s just not sure what.

_They’ve been hard on each other lately. Neither of them is always good at being in a relationship. Though their devotion is absolute, they both have deep issues that don’t just disappear with finding the right person. Things have been good since the Woman disappeared, but John wants to find a way to communicate to Sherlock that the rocky patch was a sign of them both growing, not coming apart, that John is still in it for the long haul._

It’s not until the next day, after John’s had some more sleep and cleaned three trays of decaying large intestine and half a dozen dead guinea pigs out of the refrigerator, that he knows what he should do.

They’ve merged bank accounts, but as about 80% of the money in it is from Sherlock, John still feels strange spending on anything other than household necessities. Still, Sherlock’s got his trust fund and the only other option is to ask Mycroft, and since John never counts his part in cases when adding things up, he figures he’s not out of line to spend a bit, particular if it’s on Sherlock himself.

The project takes most of the week to complete, and John gets virtually no rest during the process, but thankfully it’s done in time for Sherlock to return home six days later. He bursts in, completely unannounced as usual, and sinks into his chair.

“Ten hour layover in Bahrain, what kind of monsters run British Airways?” he complains.

John shakes his head sympathetically.

_So, he was in the Middle East or North Africa somewhere. Interesting._

“Where’s my computer?” Sherlock demands. “Any cases?”

“Oh, I think it’s upstairs in my room,” John tells him casually.

Sherlock scowls. “Why the devil would it be up there?”

“I borrowed it.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Why do you borrow mine?”                                                                                  

Sherlock glares at him. “Well, go and fetch it.”

“Ha! No.” John walks into the kitchen and puts the kettle on, firmly ignoring him.

Heaving a great sigh of injustice, Sherlock gets out of his chair and pounds up the stairs, at loudly as possible. John waits about thirty seconds and follows him.

Sherlock is standing in the middle of the bedroom, surveying it in silent awe.

“Do you like it?” John asks, shyly.

The bed is gone. Two walls have been lined with book shelves, containing most of Sherlock’s chemical library. One row of shelves is stocked with most of Sherlock’s chemistry supplies. There’s a rack for glassware, a sink, and hook-ups for gas, C02, and steam. The north side of the room is entirely taken up by large fume hood that vents outside. There is also a refrigerator and a chest freezer where John’s bed used to be, as well as a steriliser.

_It might be too much to think Sherlock might actually use that last one, but John can live in hope. At least it exists and something that could be used. If only, in fact, by John._

Sherlock doesn’t say anything and appears basically frozen to the spot.

“I’ll still keep some of my things up here in the cupboard,” John says quickly. “I did move most of my clothes into your room… our room… but I tried not to mess up your system. I didn’t want to clutter it up, I know you hate that, so anything I don’t use a lot will stay up here. I hope you don’t—”

“John.” Sherlock cuts him off hoarsely. “John, what did you…”

John smiles a little nervously. “Well, you’re always saying how it’s wasteful to have two bedrooms and that you could use this space as a lab… I listened. Is it… okay?”

“Okay?” Sherlock says incredulously. He reaches out and grabs John, spinning him around. “John, it’s…” He’s grasping for words.

“Good,” says John. “I’m glad.”

Sherlock puts his forehead to John’s. “You do realise that I’m still going to do experiments in the kitchen and leave body parts in the fridge and cultures laying about downstairs?”

_Of course he will, because if nothing else Sherlock likes to be the centre of attention, he likes to be in the middle of things. But that wasn’t the point of this exercise, and there’s plenty of things Sherlock will use this for, particularly when he’s in one of his more antisocial moods._

“Yes, I figured as much. But maybe anything potentially deadly can go up here? In the nice, safe hood?”

Sherlock nods enthusiastically. “Yes. Of course.”

John puts a hand up and caresses the side of Sherlock’s face. “We’ve been jealous and insecure and angry with each other,” he whispers ferociously. “We’re not perfect, we never will be. But I’m yours, and I’m not going anywhere. This is a promise. I’m sorry if keeping my room made you feel like I wasn’t committed. I am and I always have been. Okay?”

Sherlock is silent, running his fingers through John’s short hair. Finally, he says. “Yes.” He kisses John, in an almost innocent way, and then takes a step back to look at him fully. He shakes off the emotional reaction to John’s gift that he’s been trying hide, and puts on a more devilish air.  “Maybe we should break in my new lab properly,” he says suggestively.

_As always, Sherlock channels the sentimental into the sexual. It’s the only way he cope without blowing a gasket, John suspects. He can’t tell John how he feels, but he can show him. He can reward him with actions, if not words._

John laughs. “No, definitely not. How about we re-christen your bedroom as _ours_? Since, you know, there’s a bed in there and not up here, anymore. That was rather where I was going with this whole thing.”

Sherlock furrows his brow for moment and then brightens, grabbing John’s hand and half dragging him downstairs.

 

 

Some months later, John is going through the remaining stuff in his cupboard. He’s in a purging mood, and has decided that anything he hasn’t looked at in the past six months, with the exception of photographs and army mementos, needs to go.

He’s digging through a box that pretty much only contains terrible clothing gifts from Harry, going back to 1991, when he comes across an unlabelled envelope. He opens it and reads in Sherlock’s writing, “Karachi, Pakistan”.

John stares at it, confused, for a moment. Then it dawns on him. This must have been from one of Sherlock’s trips, his note on where he’d gone in case things went wrong. How he’d expected John to find it in a box he hadn’t gone through in several years, John has no idea, but it is rather consistent with Sherlock’s thought process. But which trip had this been? He’s only been gone a few times in the past year, since their agreement has been in force.

_Suddenly, he remembers his conversation with Mycroft, weeks ago. Irene Adler had been killed by a terrorist cell in Karachi. He hadn’t had the heart to tell Sherlock. But now it seems like he hadn’t needed to. He finds a mix of anger and empathy swelling within him._

He sits carefully, waiting until he can think rationally about this. Once he’s worked it through, he gets up calmly and goes downstairs. Sherlock is in the bedroom, resting after a particular convoluted and energetic case of drug smuggling. The time spent in the meat locker had been particularly exhausting for them both.

John walks into the bedroom quietly. Sherlock is lounging on the bed in pyjamas bottoms and an inside out t-shirt, eyes closed but not asleep.

“Hey,” John says neutrally, climbing on to the bed. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

“Can I stop you?” Sherlock replies, not opening his eyes.

“Probably not,” John admits. He flops down on his stomach next to Sherlock and props himself up on his elbows. He says, keeping frustration and hurt out of his voice as far possible, “Why didn’t you tell me you went to rescue Irene Adler?”

Sherlock’s face twitches, but manages not to betray any strong reaction. “Why did you tell me she was in a witness protection scheme in America when you knew she was dead?”

_John feels a pang of guilt for a second, unless he remembers that he only lied because he was afraid if Sherlock knew she was dead, he might just self-destruct._

“Well, she’s not dead, is she?” John retorts, sharper than he means to. He sighs, and sits up, taking Sherlock’s hand. “Sorry. I just feel foolish now. I’m not angry, not really. I’m glad she didn’t die, she didn’t deserve that ending. I just want to understand. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

Sherlock finally opens his eyes and gets up reluctantly, facing John cross-legged. “I’m not sure I can explain.”

“Try,” John says firmly. “I’m not jealous anymore. But I want to know you as much as I can, and this is a part of you I just don’t know. I won’t react badly, whatever you say. Just…please try?”

 Sherlock nods reluctantly and takes a deep breath. “I know you think I’m obsessed, infatuated. You’re right, I am. Have been. It’s not because… it’s not an attraction. Not like you would think. I am…drawn to her. Because… John, this is embarrassing!” he says suddenly.

“There’s nothing to be embarrassed about,” John assures him. “Whatever you feel, you feel, I just want to know. Isn’t that what this is all about? Knowing each other?”

“Fine,” Sherlock agrees grumpily. “The fascination is… that… she is… me…”

“She’s you? No she’s not!” John exclaims. “You couldn’t be more unlike. Well, except that you both are a bit heartless and possess a strange amorality that few people share.”

_Even as John protests, he can see it. She’s crueller than Sherlock, untempered by any affection, and she prefers the mystery of the man to the mystery of the crime scene, but there is something there, some spark they’ve recognized in each other._

Sherlock makes a noise of frustration. “But we are the same. And yet not. Or at least… she’s who I might have been. If I’d been born different, if I’d been female. She’s just as clever. It’s merely a different kind. I’m clever about facts, she’s clever about people. She can read a person, a social situation the way I read a crime scene. She’s like an alternate history to myself. All the skills I lack, she possesses.”

John takes that in. “So, you’re saying she’s…a different version of you?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know.” Sherlock is breathing too fast, unable to put it in to words, nervous that John will end up mad at him again.

“Okay,” John tells him, rubbing Sherlock’s arm reassuringly. “It’s okay. Just tell me what you can.”

Sherlock licks his lips. “I need her to exist. That’s why I saved her. She’s like… my equal and opposite force. She’s the balance to me in the universe, what might have been. Not like Moriarty. He’s what I could become but mustn’t. And not like you. You’re my complement, my other half.”

_The Woman, the Villian, and John. What will never be, what could be, what is now. These three people tell Sherlock who he is. And who he’s not._

Sherlock continues, “You, I need to be a person, to make me whole. Her, I need as a counterweight, to stand in relief. She’s my negative polarity. Or maybe I’m hers. We orbit each other, in each other’s influence but if we get too close everything burns. As long as she exists, I can exist. If there’s not hope for her… I think there might not be any hope for me.”

“You… need me in order to be a person?” John asks, stunned.

“That… wasn’t really my point,” Sherlock says. “But, yes, if you need to know. I should have thought it was obvious.”

“Sherlock Holmes, you are the most breathtaking moron I’ve ever encountered,” John tells him. He climbs into in Sherlock’s lap, winding his legs around Sherlock’s waist and hooking his arms around the back of his neck. “But then I’m not much better.”

Sherlock looks confused. “You understand then?

“Not really. I’ve never had something like that, I’m not sure I can ever really understand it. But I can understand what it means to you. And I understand what a fool I was to think that you would let her come between us. I’m sorry.”

He leans forward and nuzzles the hair above Sherlock’s ear in atonement. Sherlock exhales slowly. “I… regret… if any of the ways I have behaved made you doubt your importance to me. I was distracted. I didn’t ever expect to meet someone like her. Like myself, and unlike. Trying to puzzle it out took more of my attention than perhaps it should have.”

_John sometimes aches to see Sherlock struggle with concepts and feelings most people understand so well they hardly need to explain them. He has to construct metaphors and invent terms just to be able to grasp what’s going on within himself. Everything that has to do with people, with their emotions and his, and their relation to each other, is a battle for him. No wonder he finds refuge in the coldly logical so much of the time._

“Apology accepted,” John whispers.

“Likewise.” Sherlock is trembling in his arms, from the energetic cost of an explanation like this.

John holds him tighter. “I was just so afraid of losing you. I went a bit barmy. What can I do to make it up to you?”

Sherlock puts his mouth to John’s ear and tells him very softly, almost bashfully.

John throws his head back and laughs, then kisses him deeply, passionately. “Why, Mr. Holmes, that could take all afternoon!” he says, with feigned shock.

Sherlock seems puzzled. “If you don’t—”

John slaps a finger across his mouth. “I just meant that we’d better get started.”

He rolls himself to the side, pulling Sherlock down to the mattress with him. “You’re my dark matter,” he tells Sherlock, stroking the curve of his hip. “You can’t always see it, but you make up ninety-six percent of my universe.”

“You look like a beacon in the North Sea,” Sherlock replies, fervently, glad to be speaking a language he understands again.

John smiles and draws Sherlock nearer, and suddenly neither of them are thinking of Irene Adler, nor will they for a very long time.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This series will be continued in February with "Invisible Spectrum". Thanks for persevering with me!


End file.
